We move on, leave people behind
Yet; the closet,
does not forget
and holds the power
to unexpectedly remind
Reading through the poems, the readers might feel like reading a personal diary or journal, and that personal, private quality of the poems add to their relevance and relatable quality.
I lie down on my bed,
I lie down on my bed & look at the ceiling-
And I think how all of my family members deserve to get awarded
Because of their brilliant acting skills.
Locked lips and my hands on your hips,
But your hand, it slips.
Am I the labels i was born with or bestowed upon me?
My mind has slowed down for the millionth time today
The clock ticks slowly.
As though it’s not moving at all
It’s 8:17 am
She pulls my chin towards her and we’re already very much there
I dig my fingers inside her hair, long and flowy
Rough at the ends dusted with the powder of a newly purchased swim cap
All the moaning drowns out these voices in my head
One the count of three,
I will ask for your hand for a walk,
"You will call me by your name and as I will call you by mine",
We will walk by the beach to the sunrise,
Sharing a kiss and a moment so divine.
This is going to be a bad poem.
Because we've all gotten sick of
Hearing people being called 'home'
And partners and soul mates
And we roll our eyes now
When yet another person
Talks about having a connection
But I don't mind repeating verses
Because everytime we meet
It's like we never said goodbye
So who gives a fuck
about being original?
For the word 'hug',
I know what it means,
I know what its purpose is,
I know that it is supposed to provide me with warmth,
A shoulder on which i can cry and laugh and talk about weird stuff,
A shoulder on which i gently lay my chin.
I hope this life brings me this treasure,
So the triumph of my struggle will be a measure,
To reunite my body and soul,
And I will once again become whole.
Its these boxes of the past-
They’ve told me cis men show love this intense
Can’t take no for a no.
But here you are scaring me,
A woman in love this intense
It is a new morning.
You know you will have to do this over and over and over.
Everytime, you get a little bit stronger. Not because it gets easy, but because you know the
battleground so well.
My dad said, " You are my brave boy, you don't need a mask to help you shine."
But little did they know, the mask was now my identity,
Some people knew me with the mask and they loved me.
So here’s the tale!
Here’s to the violet when I was bullied for not being ladylike and pushed against the last
bench of the classroom.
The blood cloth as if showed the first colour of the flag on my skin.
One of the things I love most about theatre
Is the ephemeral disintegration of orthodox socio-cultural identities,
Which typically comes along with losing your self for another,
Gendered expectations of Walk like a man, talk like a man, sit like a man,
Spread your legs, assert your dominance;
No, not you! You’re a woman. You, huddle up.
Occupy less space. Be less loud.
was hard. I’m still trying.
I chased the normal by complying.
Amongst feminist poetry, her work, such as The List of Shit That Made Me A Feminist series, is bold and unapologetic, showcasing the common experiences of women all over the world. It gives rise to feelings of solidarity, along with the resolve to create change and emerge from the ruins, stronger than ever.
So would you not
join me in the investigation
for the world to decipher
why (spoiler alert)
you killed “what a poor boy”.
predictably building up to a steamy lovemaking scene,
marked by the male gaze
and then there's the inseparability
I’m not at all unsure, I look at her and I know.
She’s the kind of girl
I want to wrap myself around,
Press my lips against, and slam into the door.