Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there was a girl with four eyes and a button nose. She was brittle like the dried grasses she’d press between thumb and forefinger when wading through sunset lit fields; her skin glowing a soft pink mirroring the peach clouds and Jacob’s ladders. She was loud at home and shy at school, two halves of the same penny. When young she loved flowers and fairies, playing princess with her dolls and writing in her diaries. She loved her siblings and friends. But underneath all this familiar happiness, there lurked her fear. She did not want to let go.

As her legs sprouted upwards towards the sun and her fingers laced longer on wrists, the glasses she wore remained but something else drooped. Her wings that started with butterfly colours and sheen were withering in the cruel ceiling electrics of secondary school. Hiding face constellations with thick orange in attempts to please princes who really were hiding something too. She read in the library, and somehow the echo of childhood she so longed to keep frittered away into the holes of her blazer and silent bus stops.

This girl is older now, and she wants her wings back. She knows she drinks too much and gets distracted by fuckboys- but she is beautifully human. A choice is all we need, a choice for love and not sucking our stomachs so hard into rib-cages you gasp instead of laughing. It is not being worried that you haven’t completed x, y and z that you said you would today but smiling at what you have done. It is letting the dogs lick your skin without fussing about germs or anything else.

We all heal from the hurts we have done to ourselves, inspired by the ignorant cruelty of others in a myriadical and blooming ocean of rituals- I read books and write poetry where my brother draws superheroes. My mother rescues hens from factory deaths. We each are small, but so powerful in the realms we can control.

Today’s poem is from one of my diaries being 16- this is a message to the past versions of ourselves that we all lumber. M.G.B- you will be alright, there is nothing to fear xoxoxox

If Honey never goes off, then why do I feel so wrong?

Atonement- a way to
make everything okay again.
Nothing more-
okay?
Strawberry seeds of quiet
displacement. Inertly
pressing somethings,
small and sad
into flushed skin of this body.
Fluidity of hurt,
never ceasing to grow broken smiles
and awkward hands from
frail white blossom
every spring. Nectar drizzled
forgiveness is what I crave.
Who do I ask?
Bee keeper pain-
please make my mistakes
somehow right-
undone as the poppy
lolloped rain.

THAT GIRL IS A TOMBOY

๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿข๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’ซ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ“š๐Ÿ”ฎ๐ŸŒฑโ˜•๐Ÿš๐ŸŒป๐Ÿ„๐Ÿฉ๐ŸŒž

When I was younger, I used to get told off constantly for being that eldest bratty child with their finger constantly up their nose, whilst burping some obscenity about my butt at the dinner table and such grotty things. I was a little girl with muddy knees who loved playing in the park after school putting mints into cola bottles just as much as I treasured my pink doll palace and fairy wings.

๐Ÿ’– I am tomboy with fairy wings. ๐Ÿ’–

This blog title is close to my heart, as it comes from an anthem written by one of the most powerful fucking queens this world is yet to see. “Tomboy” by Princess Nokia made me see my life as I knew it should be after an ultra long time of really confusing emotions and stress, which not only impacted my mood, but the hearts of my grrrls and boiz too. “My body little, soul heavy…” Listening to this song, suggested by my bestie Brujha has seriously inspired changes:

1.) No more self pity over boys. Love is in the blood. You cannot force it out of you without a knife, and that is no fun.
2.) I am fed up being afraid. Of people/ poetry/ Theresa May/ my mind/ spiders and tight fitting dresses. I am not a burden, and neither are you fellow tomboy- we deserve to shine and express our hopes in this world TOGETHER!!!!!!!
3.) “PRINCESS NOKIA BABY PHAT, I BE WHERE THE LADIES AT…”๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿ‘ญ

Hence, this blog- a space for me to share my work and connect with others. I want to still submit my poetry/ writing to other places- but here can be my zen. The seed to grow. I want this blog to be a place to explore poetry/feminism/stars/flowers/fruits/sonnets/music ANYTHING that empowers soul to be at that place where you look in the mirror and keep your eyes there without wishing.

I am feeling punk fucking rock today. I feel like I could punch Donald Trump in the face (not that I condone violence) and run around the White house naked (and I would let Trump see me, I wouldn’t punch him in the eye) whilst smoking a big fat doobie with my favourite fake fruit straw hat on.

Therefore, my first post shall not be quiet or meek or have shaved legs. My first post is not afraid of being big. I hope you like this poem- I wrote it combining the lyrics of one of my other favourite songs, “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill with an article I read about pro-anorexia chatrooms (https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/i-spent-a-week-in-a-pro-ana-whatsapp-group-talking-to-the-goddess-of-emaciation-876).

Girls should never be afraid of themselves, whatever kind of a girl you are. Because girls can be tomboys and tomboys can be girly and even boys can be girly AND boys can be tomboys WOW- this world is messy but lets try to smile.

ALL MY LOVE UNTIL NEXT TIME,

M.G.B

๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’˜

Pro-ana revolution: A Cento

That girl thinks she’s the emaciation goddess
of this neighbourhood- ย ย ย hottest
thigh gap, hip bones
in town or Whatsapp. That girl holds
her head in the toilet bowl, on
Sundays sends full body photographs, pictures
of scales-ย  ย ย I want to be her.

Rebel girl, rebel skeleton

you are the queen, my parents are gone;
(an obsessive and absolute devotion)
I want to look beautiful getting slimmer;
try on your clothes.

When she talks, I hear revolution-
“Refusing to eat and being thin are signs
of true success and strength!”
Her hips.ย ย ย  ย ย ย She walks,
itโ€™s my religion. ย ย The revolution’s coming-
โ€œstomach cramps caused by laxatives are to be
celebrated as death rattleโ€-
those hated poundsโ€ฆ ย ย ย ย ย ย ย In her kiss,
I taste revolution:
I taste dizzy blood.

Rebel skeleton, rebel dream

of driving each other deeper.
(Marie has been fasting for
three days- only water or
cappuccino).ย ย  Break
her rules, and you will
be punished.ย ย  ย I know.

That girl, she’s the queen of the neighbourhood-
she is!ย ย ย ย ย ย  Iโ€™ve got news for you:
She will force you into the bathroom,
onto your knees. You will stare
into the empty toilet bowl. You will stick
your fingers in your throat and, and and
not without
pain, your food will
come out and she will
hold your hair-
pat your back.
She is my best friend.

over and over-
Tomorrow Iโ€™ll try to nothing,
try to compensate the world.
please donโ€™t kick me out
rebel girl,
fat cow.
I deserve all the pain;
not allowed to eat. You are
all so gorgeous! I am just
ugly,
fat.

Rebel girls in love with their illnesses,
the fragility of their minds
and bodies;ย ย ย ย  the latter
to loathe. Fat pig-
Rebel girl.ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  just cut.

โ€ฆ

mortality rates are 4 percent for anorexia nervosa, 3.9 percent for bulimia nervosa, and 5.2 percent for eating disorders according to
whoever.