Wake up to the same damn song on the phone, I haven't bothered to change it in months (screw me).
The barking dogs and the siphoning mosquitoes who make the most of the all their all night buffet meal, namely me (screw them).
Feed on a book whilst straining to poo.
Brush Ayurvedic toothpaste onto my creamy whites, more like oil of Olay gone desecrate.
Mix and match, though not for me. Cos I suffer from obesity.
What went on my lips, refuses to budge from my hips, or breasts or back or legs.
I've often felt I looked like the meat placed at a shawarma shop. Or on certain days an ice cream cone. with the cherry being the small head of mine. popped on the gigantic spread of my body.
No I'm not happy. GQ tells me what and who to wear, but they don't make it for me.
Neither am I chauffeured in an expensive car, stepping out in sheepskin Oxfords and having the people around me smell the l'eau d'Issey, I've carefully applied on pressure points or nerve end points or just randomly in the hope I'm being smelt. Everything in Feng Shui.
No that's not me, I say. Head held low, not to be mean or haughty. The wind resurrects far too much dust and the sun is far too unkind. It shines on my skin and then I get stared at. What puzzles me is what's so special to look at in me?
All they see is fair skin untouched. But beneath runs cracks and sores, which itch and burn and swell. Or to summarise in Latin, tumor, rubor, calor and dolor...
* Inspired by Kalki Koechlin's powerful monologue, you can watch it here... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeMVQ3nCjQM
The barking dogs and the siphoning mosquitoes who make the most of the all their all night buffet meal, namely me (screw them).
Feed on a book whilst straining to poo.
Brush Ayurvedic toothpaste onto my creamy whites, more like oil of Olay gone desecrate.
The bucket fills, cold at first and then hot. I play the role of a hand pump doing away with the cold into a separate bucket but tres desole at the end as I return the H2O to its warm self.
Like a zombie, I eat the meal placed before me, while surfing the net, always raring for something new to see. I'm baked, though I've not had anything in a while. I'm totally baked. But not in a good sort of way. More like been in the oven for too long cos I'm trying to catch whats on TV baked.Mix and match, though not for me. Cos I suffer from obesity.
What went on my lips, refuses to budge from my hips, or breasts or back or legs.
I've often felt I looked like the meat placed at a shawarma shop. Or on certain days an ice cream cone. with the cherry being the small head of mine. popped on the gigantic spread of my body.
No I'm not happy. GQ tells me what and who to wear, but they don't make it for me.
Neither am I chauffeured in an expensive car, stepping out in sheepskin Oxfords and having the people around me smell the l'eau d'Issey, I've carefully applied on pressure points or nerve end points or just randomly in the hope I'm being smelt. Everything in Feng Shui.
No that's not me, I say. Head held low, not to be mean or haughty. The wind resurrects far too much dust and the sun is far too unkind. It shines on my skin and then I get stared at. What puzzles me is what's so special to look at in me?
All they see is fair skin untouched. But beneath runs cracks and sores, which itch and burn and swell. Or to summarise in Latin, tumor, rubor, calor and dolor...
* Inspired by Kalki Koechlin's powerful monologue, you can watch it here... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeMVQ3nCjQM
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