Mission Twenty-First Century


The recent changes regarding bodily rights and abortion within certain states in America have caused outrage and turmoil to unfold across the world, especially on social media. Women have been congregating in solidarity to support women’s rights to bodily autonomy. I think the element of the individual and personhood has been completely overlooked when these laws have been passed and should be reconsidered with the long term effects of each woman as an individual, regardless of her circumstance at that time. I hope you enjoy this poem and share the message that this is not OK. Thank you.

I’m For Me, Actually.

Let’s take a moment to bask in the clouded judgement

That escapes my mind and charges through my mouth

Every day and every night.

Watch me quiver in relentless fear

For I can’t change the shape the sky

As I can’t change the way you look at me.

I think and I think

And I wonder why you don’t feel the sun raining on your spine when you see me,

I look in the mirror and I have a world staring back at me,

Saturn, caressed in rings of colour as I am caressed in scars.

Though mine don’t seem to mimic the same passion the universe has for its planets.

Where can I find my love for myself

When I’ve placed all my need, all my hardship, all my reddish hate and unceasing warmth

Into you.

If I tread carefully I can avoid the mournful pools of thought that cross my path

Every now and then

Intertwined in my yellow brick road leading to nowhere imparticular.

I feel every feeling so severely it rattles my ribcage as a lion rattles its fencing,

Longing for escape and a life free from chains,

Be it lust or hunger for more than this.


Why do I convince myself that I am enough for you.

You are precise about your coffee,

Soya Milk. Poured whilst stirring. Two and a half sugars.

One can assume you are with everything else.

An open door is a breath of fresh air,

As I leave the room and consider more for my little life

Neatly boxed away in a corner.

The loud silence is overbearing and I am sharing too much with myself.

My mind does not want to overstay its welcome

Although it rarely gets the hint to fuck off and let me sleep for the night.

Awake, I am left to mourn for my loss of ideas,

My loss of salvation in the artsy life I had planned for us.

Left rooted in a dry soil, unmoving,

I can only accept the help as it comes,

Few and far between,

Buried in the burning broth of a witch’s curse,

I can only grow from the self, upwards.

A meek, pompous uproar into life as myself

As I realise I’m for me, actually.