Poetry

I wear sky blue ear defenders to dull the threatening hum of the world.

They’re not perfect. They might cork the sharpness,

but they cannot smooth it.

And the times when I need their comfort most,

when the weight of voices, bodies, auras

tries to crush me and all I want is silence,

they become invisible. Strangers direct questions my way

as if they’re not even there. Comments

that need responses I’m too weary,

too flattened, to give.

I can still hear every word, and each one ties me with the cord of obligation

to reach for my social mask,

the one I thought I’d shed months ago.

I wear sky blue ear defenders to dull the threatening hum of the world.

They’re armour to protect me, but even armour

cannot save me from arrows.

Poetry

Feigned Ignorance, test one.

Look away.

Our subject isn’t cool, isn’t warm, isn’t quiet, isn’t loud.

She is simply a passenger

journeying inside a tube filled with bubbles,

and hers is burst suddenly, tearing her from the pages of the novel clutched in her hands

to the attention of the male specimen, tipsy as a timer,

demanding her number.

As if she is a prized doll for collectors.

Politely, she refuses.

 

The male specimen does not like this. He accuses her of prudishness.

As if that’s his business.

None of the other bubbles burst while this is going on.

They are content, floating away; raised voices bounce off them,

pleading looks erased by blank stares.

 

Her stop is close, the tube is slowing.

Our subject can get away this time.

Next time, let’s take away her escape route and see what happens.

I’d like to think that all the bubbles would burst then,

but my colleagues say the probability is low.

We’re not placing bets.

Poetry

Forgive

Forgive the way I find it uncomfortable to be around people,

forgive the way I dress, comfortable loose t-shirts and harem pants,

forgive the fact I don’t wax, shaving my legs only when I feel,

forgive my inability to be okay with strangers touching me,

forgive my blunt nature, stating what I think,

forgive my lack of make-up, wearing just my face,

forgive me for not understanding ‘obvious’ directions,

forgive me for not getting your witty jokes,

forgive me from stepping aside when you get too close,

forgive me for being me, acting ‘separate’ or ‘aloof’.

 

Wait.

No, not forgive.

Accept.

 

Accept me, you shit.

Poetry

Discombobulate

The fog looms behind my eyes threatening

to seep out if I widen them enough.

Yet my eyes aren’t wide at all, they’re half

closed, eyelids sinking low despite the overwhelming

rushes of air, clinking of keys, feet shuffling

a little too close and perfume forcing its way up my nostrils.

I can feel my body one moment, and in the next

it’s lost, disconnected and I’m a floating head.

A floating head with a parroting voice, a mimic,

a copycat of everything, even emotions.

Not that I don’t feel my own. Mine just won’t display.