My Female Rage

Next time,

I think I’ll disobey

your expectations.

I won’t monitor myself.

I won’t seethe in toilet cubicles

then exit with smiles. 

I won’t scream into pillows

in agreeable suffocation. 

I won’t laugh

when I mean to growl.

Next time,

I will explode

in supermarket aisles

leaving terrified boys

in my wake.

I will upturn tables,

witness words slip from my mouth

like grenades,

have you searching WebMD

for a diagnosis of 

my symptoms. 

Unpredictable.

Unmanageable.

It could be ugly.

It could be ravishing. 

Either way, you’ll probably 

feel uneasy.

Don’t worry,

this will pass.

It’s just a temporary 

side-effect to beholding 

my beautiful rage. 

1996

I'd like to go back to 1996

and listen to Wannabe for the first time (again) 

and feel the same pining to wear platforms and pigtails 

and terrorise posh old men in hotels.

I’d like to sell homemade ice lollies outside my house and 

feel the same sense of pride 

with each clink of a coin

instead of the doubt-tinged pride of adulthood.

I'd like to look at that girl and tell her:

people (boys) are going to ask things (sex) of you

and I want you to know that 

You can say No.

I'd like to run along piers and leap 

weightless into the sea, just one more time

true abandon

without fear or self-consciousness.

I'd like to go back to a time 

before mortality was a thing.

Such a sharp coming-of-age

to realise that loving would one day become pain.

I'd like to remember not even considering what I looked like 

day to day, when bin bags of hand-me-downs 

were like Christmas, not

a sign of how broke we were.

Let me tell you:

I worked those corduroy trousers

before and after they were a thing.

I’d like to laugh so hard

just a little bit of wee comes out

and then not even remember what was funny.

I’d really like to build a fucking marble run

and a den.

If I could, I would tell myself:

You are honestly one of the coolest kids I've ever known.

And when she asks me,

you know this grown-up thing?

Is it everything it’s cracked up to be?

I'd turn to her, smile, and say …

   Kid, you'll find out one day.

s h e i s w i l d

she wears Kappa trackies

un-popped to the knee

and they move like two wings

as she sweeps into the room

her crop top reveals

a heart tattoo - fake and fading now 

but clinging to her

just like we do

the Adults breathe in sharply

as if she might suck them dry

she is wild - it’s in her eyes 

not searching for approval like mine

it’s in the tip of her fingers

the bend of her neck

the croon of her voice

the thrust of her step

she speaks Salome’s words

kisses his mouth

with venom then offers us

his head on a platter

i almost reach out for it!

afterwards she lets the boys

pay one pound

to look down her knickers

if i were them i wouldn't look

i'd ask her what she dreams of at night

when moons fill the sky

like silver flowers

or better i’d ask what it is she fears

if she even does ...

like the rest of us

i daydream of her until Sunday

and pray for one more glimpse

of red