They Treat Me Like...
a stray
They treat me, literally, like a battered bruised cat or dog at the SPCA, torn
up about my disposition but not willing to take me home because they don't
want strays.
And I befriend these kinds of people anyways.
And when it blows up in my face after the friendship or relationship has
sunken like the Titanic,
it's usually only me that's filled with sadness
(and regret) and occasionally panic
or trauma, from the unsatisfying strain and drain, sustained
by all their drama.
Now I'm scared to make friends.
Fuck, I don't even do relationships with women, let alone men.
I'm a loner now.
©I.M … me
-- xo
About the Creator
©I.M. "That Girl," Inure Muse
Hi! I'm "That Girl Muse," author, artist, muse, poet, surrealist and spirit guide, who uses creativity as a means to heal the mind. Each poem's a lil' bit of Inure Muse's story @Find_the_muse & support my work. You can also book me online!
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Discriminate
Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.
By Hannah Moore7 days ago in Poets
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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