Happy 18 years baby! I declare on Facebook, hoping my highschool "friends" will see.

I'm saying "I am not a slut."

I'm saying see,

I am a worthy person.

I'm saying those words

Still sting,fester just under my skin,

The rumours both true and untrue, still make me want to delcare innocence, whatever that is.

God forbid I'm not totally innocent.

That I "lost" my virginity and "lost" value.

I still, after all these years want you to approve of me, to say I am okay, not less than you.

Still I want you to apologise,

to beg forgiveness.

You made me feel small.

Fuck you! I was never small,

no part of me was lost and I am completely worthy.

I was always magic, you hated that.

Shamefully, I still hope you might accept me back "in"

you might remember whoever you saw die when my name changed to slut.

I still feel like discarded gum from the bottom of your sneakers.

No Filter,

Through his skin he pulls the world in.

It's pleasure, it's pain, it all feels same.

It's chaos, it's calm, his hearts on his arm.

The pressure, his breath, it crushes his chest.

He is moved to the core, he shudders some more.

His hair stands on end as time and space bend,

He repeats and he counts, he whispers and shouts,

He begs for mundane but his brain's not the same,

It’s brilliant, intense, it makes to much sense.

It tells him lies and makes him cry, torments his logic and muddies the sky.

The water's feels hot, although it is cold, his body reels back, won't do what it's told. Meltdown, Goosebumps. Nothing is right, it's never just right, it is never just right.

Day after day he runs the same loop, escaping a vulture that's not there to swoop,

No reassurance can wash off the fear, words are just bells that ring in his ear.

He wants to be held, if it's that kind of day, though most of the days he runs away.

Most of the days he runs away.

Hey you! You owe me!

” Show us ya tits!”

I whistled at you... Stuck up bitch!

Fuckin smile,

What’s your problem? Don’t be a cunt.

You owe me! I whistled, I’m up for the hunt.

You walked past on purpose, dressed like a slut.

It’s not fair to tease me...ugly mutt,

You owe me! Don’t run!

You’re making it worse,

This could go easy, or with you in a herse.

Shut the fuck up! Ill hit you harder,

Don’t bite my hand, I thought you looked smarter.

You owe me! Stay down, or I’ll crush in your head

you won’t look so sexy broken and dead.

You could have worn more, not danced in a club,

You could have left early, not got drunk.

You could have said hi, just a little flirt,

But now here you are, face in the dirt.

You’re pissing me off, Why are you crying ?

You broke your own wrist, just stop fighting.

You owe me!... Be quite, I’m almost done,

I own you.....Be quite, you are here for my fun.

Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my life,

You’ll keep your mouth shut, just like my wife.

Why’d you stop moving, you’re such a shit lay,

Get up now!.... I’m finished, walk away.

Get up! Get up! We’ve had a good time,

You never said no, come on now you’re fine.

Fuck!! Just blink, Where are you staring?

Breath! Do something, that siren is blaring,

You left me no choice, I’ll strick this match,

Burn up quickly now, cover my tracks.

You owe me women, Don’t give me up,

Just dissapear, vanish, you fridgid slut.

I’ll kick you once more, because you exist.

Now I’m a killer because of you bitch.

Poppies were her favourite flower. A little bit wild, especially interesting and brave enough to grow almost anywhere. That is why Poppy loved her name. It suited her and reminded her of all the most wonderful things she could be. Poppy’s mum loved flowers, and named her daughter Poppy to honour both her beautiful new babe and the delicate flower that prevailed in any and all terrains. Growing up in the country, Poppy and her mum had an enormous garden. It sprawled across their yard, and crawled along the exterior walls of their house. It grew flowers of every variety, leaves of every shade and texture, and generously offered fruits, herbs and vegetables throughout the year. Poppy and her mum worked hard on their garden, every day they spent time tending to new plants, pruning old ones and pulling out the pesky weeds that appeared like a dropped stitch in their otherwise perfect patchwork quilt. They would flop down on to the garden swing after each gardening day, wiping their flushed faces with the backs of their hands. Almost always they would forget they were wearing their gardening gloves and smudge dirt across their foreheads. Gleefully painted with their precious garden earth, Poppy and her mum would lean on each other as they made their way inside for a cold drink. Poppy loved nothing more than gardening days shared with her mum, those days, like a long sleepy hug reinforced everything warm and comforting between them.

The garden gave and took from them with perfect gratitude. Turning it’s face toward the sun and rain, it continued to grow lush and green with gratitude.