My! What a twitchy little thing you are!
-A misguided attempt at a little forgiveness
What harm is there, really
In choosing to admire her
Her begrudging little soul will
Only light up a little faster
With imperceptibly styled hair
And pointy boots
Which won’t- can’t?
Survive the first puddle
And who would refund the little treasury?
And it never is the same-
Meanings lost in translation
the tiniest flaws flare under a non-glow.
The very antithesis of what I experienced before
‘You’re beautiful!’ scream self-help books
‘You’re magical!’ quip glossy dreamy magazines
‘Shake it off!’ insists the latest pop-music trend
But I sit with my head in my hand.
And liberation isn’t golden-brown
In crisp, deep-fried buckets of fatty foods
Nor is it swimming hard and fast
At the bottom of a cup of bitter coffee
Sugarless, not because I owe it to my body
But because otherwise I would be floating, head bobbing
In the middle of an ocean somewhere in the Arctic.
Those inked girls who talk to you
About new-age liberation
Spending hours of days in well-stocked bathrooms
And hours of nights on beds besides well-stocked night drawers
I ask you next, what answers would you give me
To repel the ultra-slimming, ultra-fairness products
Aleo vera-essential oils-your granddad’s 60’s-something vintage wine
Goodness, the nightmares never end
In bobby pins and pink puffs
Powdered fuchsia-rosy futons
And the ceaseless colour churning machine
Did chagrin never count for anything?
Are mystical chants and spiritual intonations back in fashion?
Someone will let me know on Buzzfeed whilst I
Rest my eyes for a little while
And it’s not like we need to stay simplified
Who wants that?
With men crying foul and your own tiny broken internal recorder
The one that started playing when you hit puberty
Men are evil heart-breakers, non-doers, ungrateful pigs
Covered with tar of the vilest, stickiest sort
Because there are the Darcys in classics
and Meg Cabot’s modern men
Not to mention Mills and Boon
What a hot mess this is
Inside the body of your average intense marriage-baby-home-of-your-own loving
Little team player
What are the real men like and where and who is listening
In that space beyond Heathcliff
And the wide gap of darkness looking up at you
How do you judge a man? What do you make of him?
perhaps questions of life and death hanging in the balance-
Is love to be a grandiose, turbulent storm
Of tiffs and being taken in fury
I’m rubber and you’re glue
But I still want you?
Or an absolute, floating dialogue
with each signal consented for
Much like in a democratic republic
And beneath the mistletoe
Where the good girl waits
Brutal honesty can be unappreciated
Tuck your blouse and fold your legs
Sit still like a lady and please, no fags
Be content with the way things are
We’re sorting through the issues
One painful point at a time
But someone needs to say something.
About what the men suffer. About what the women suffer
And how unnaturally natural it is
To think of this zeitgeist
As an unwelcome cherry to be popped
I cannot be fooled by what the world tells me.
I cannot be reduced to a one-line role in a play
I will be barking mad every single day I live
I will be spitting fireballs at passing cars
But somehow, that won’t solve a single thing
Keep your head about you, keep your head about you.
So that’s what we girls do.