Spectrum Hearts

Today is when love was first legalised in glorious Britannia. By love I mean freedom- I mean not being afraid if you wanna kiss your neighbour’s lips- the boy who likes cricket and has freckles like strawberry seeds. Or your girl next door; her hair crimson at dusk and webbed topaz at dawn lolling shoulder blades. Love means bodies without fear: it means we see ourselves truly, without pretence or glamour.

It makes me feel such shame that we locked this away and threw away the key in ‘honour’s’ name for too fucking long. The glitter was dulling behind bars, and feet that should have been slow-dancing on wedding floors were stagnating in cells instead.

I am of the opinion that we are all a little bit gay on the inside: that people who deny themselves a little taste of colour are so mopey and angry at others because they’re jealous. So the old saying goes- happiness is the best revenge. What happier revenge than love; what do people try to stifle more in this world than compassion? I am only young, but I have my opinions. Thus says my brain: Love, desire; they’re persecuted because they are needed more than wanted, they are powerful beyond definition of language.

I am so proud with of the punk/prog/ gay pride progressions my country has made since it’s (fluctuating and never truly ending) dark ages. But other countries still deny their citizens the right to hold hands with beloveds in summer bloomed parks. To kiss in front of cinema screens; or to wed, that gold ring and memory forever. My love and thoughts go out all the way to those still trapped and afraid- I use my freedom of expression to hope, to will for yours. LGBTQ+ community: you are loved, please don’t feel ashamed or wrong or deadly. You are beautiful like festival colours and flower smells. You are beloved unto this soil, and please don’t let yourselves go down due to ignorance. You are seeded strong- will last out all winters.

Today’s poem was written when I was 16 and at a Pride March with all my friends. I remember feeling so alive, so liberated and joyful to be in the sun without fear on that pavement, holding up banners and shouting aloud into the sky and shop window faces. Happy LOVE. That’s all there is to it; LOVE, LOVE, LOVE xoxoxoxoxox




I belonged there, dancing.
I belonged there- in the sherbet
fizzing July sun; laughter
and drums spectrumreaching
ears as second nature.  Pavements
baked in this crowd, excitement.

A carnival of colours marrying hope
with young fuckery on London’s
summer seasoned walkways.

Gimps and holy men and
inflorescence of old dykes holding
hands- our people glittering.
Mirages of possibility finally conjured
into warm heavythumped blood.
Souls sing “FUCK YOU”
and peace- no longer a classroom fantasy
but flesh, a commitment or kiss.

Dancing did so I whole
belong. Sweaty palms agripped
placard as grail- awakening,
awakening childlike loving
glee and must never be lost.
We shuffle with crowds, not noticing
how every step, each movement
is only a dust-breadth;
resembling twigs floating down
greenweeded river in this concrete
jumble- we pay no mind to swans staring
out shop windows or the dwindling
of scaffoled hours. The present was a
Present- and that’s where I

The repetitions of her in my life-
collapsing yet again into crossed legs
on park floor fuzz in old trainers,
smiling as she starts off the roll-up,
sunning ourselves as strawberries
would. (If we had time to contemplate
such metaphors.)

We are enraptured in NOW,
this gay teenage fantasy-
warm wine swigged straight from the bottle
and we not yet 18, sparkling giggles down
our throats; rucksacks
smuggled on rails.
Face-paint smudged by
caresses- smiles and shouts;
this delicate stasis.

No worries of beating red
sticking to teeth like glue-
No terrified of myself dissolving,

It was my pride-
our pride of all hopes,
We belonged there
all the heart long.



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.

💖 I am tomboy with fairy wings. 💖

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!!!!!!!

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.




Pro-ana revolution: A Cento

That girl thinks she’s the emaciation goddess
of this neighbourhood-    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-    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.       She walks,
it’s my religion.   The revolution’s coming-
“stomach cramps caused by laxatives are to be
celebrated as death rattle”-
those hated pounds…        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).   Break
her rules, and you will
be punished.    I know.

That girl, she’s the queen of the neighbourhood-
she is!       I’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 I’ll try to nothing,
try to compensate the world.
please don’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

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

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