Poems of the Week
Curated for Your Poetic Pallette
by Kirsty Fiona
I told myself it would take a while for me to write this poem;
here I am.
My fingers smell of cheap cigarettes,
I tell myself I only smoke when it gets bad
Being catcalled reminds me of you,
your ability to have me trust you carelessly.
I was wearing my favourite sweater—
it is still my favourite sweater.
Acquired at the United Church flea market at the age of 14,
Its seams slowly fraying.
I told myself I would never write this poem.
That I was not brave enough to feel this again,
that I did not deserve.
We tell ourselves that we want this attention,
because at 15, I based my worth on whether men wanted me.
Now I wonder if I am still doing the same when I become
Evaluating myself on my ability to be loved by men;
to please men.
Always questioning if this was real.
This is real.
This was real.
This is still real.
I know now that
“love” is not your fingers dancing quietly on a bench at
2 a.m. in November with my hazy, high body.
That same night, she and I
walked home with her knife curled up in her fleece,
daring any stranger to encounter us at 3 in the morning.
We are guided by this fear,
I am still guided by this fear.
People still wonder why sometimes I do not trust men
to not take me from myself.
I am whole and lovable.
I am not lost.
I know exactly where I am.
It is still my favourite sweater,
I just didn’t wear it for a while.
“I am whole and lovable.
I am not lost.
I know exactly where I am.“— Kirsty Fiona, Hazy
by Michael Dutton
She smiled at me
Like a smooth decadence into personality
Dependent on nothing
She reminds me of the yellow mountains of Spain!
And all the other places I’ve never been
by Jazmin Merhmann
All I have left of you
I treat it with less respect
Than most things
Sometimes I light it
A failed attempt
To kindle memories
That have nothing to do with you
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