Henry Tudor (poem)

Henry Tudor, Number eight.
Broke the scales With his weight.
Henry also had 6 wives,
Let me tell you about their lives.
 –
Henry first married Katherine of Aragon,
As his brother Arthur before him had done.
Poor old Kat got a girl, not what Henry wanted,
So he started his own church… Because a divorce couldn’t be granted.
 –
Then came young Anne from the house of Boleyn,
And at first the King’s heart she did win.
But after daughter two his love did stop,
So he sent little Annie off to the chop.
 –
The third was Jane Seymour, she was so pretty!
Young and blonde, and incredibly witty.
She did manage to give the king a male heir,
But died in childbirth, how unfair!
 –
Anne of Cleeves was lucky number four,
Henry sent painter Holbein to her door.
But the portrait wasn’t realistic, “She looks like a horse!”
And so the king got his second divorce.
 –
Kathryn Howard, Number five,
Would be Henry’s youngest wife.
The young girl flirted with many men,
She was sent to the tower just like her Cousin Anne.
 –
Katherine Parr was the last one,
Took care of Henry and his daughters and son.
She stayed with the King until his death,
Remarried and celebrated , “I kept my head!”
 –
This was the story of Henry the killer,
Not that romantic, it sounds like a thriller.
He died at age fifty five,
Best known as the fat king who couldn’t keep a wife.

Depression

When the sheets on your bed turn in to walls, a protection barrier, but too heavy to crawl away from once it falls.

when your pillow has two sides, one on which you sleep and one on which you cry.

When getting up is a fight, when there’s too much anxiety during the night.

Then you know.

Things you used to enjoy being destroyed,  every last bit of hope thrown into the trash because depression would rather see you crash and burn.

You fight, you fight a war no one understands because “Yesterday you seemed alright! ” And “You should really snap out of it”.

And snapping you do.

When you finally pieced yourself together, prepare to watch yourself crumble.
Hide under your blankets. Cry in your pillow.

Love letter to my introvert

I love the way you show me that you need space. Grabbing your earbuds, listening to an audio book, browsing social media. You create your own bubble, occasionally letting me in by softening your gaze, a smile lingering on your lips.

I love that you recently started going to the gym when I’m at your place. You come back to me refreshed and happy, the serious frown on your forehead reduced to relaxed lines. I feel the tension slide from your shoulders and watch it wash away in the shower drain.

I love that I am only “half people” to you, being with me still requires energy but less than with others. I give you the freedom to leave at parties and you give me the option to stay.

But some days, I prefer to be your half person.

I love you more than busy parties, public events and social gatherings.

I love you most when you’re on twitter.

Femininity

“You cut your hair.” He said, glaring at me.
“Yes, I like it short.” I replied. What else was there to say?

“It’s not feminine.” He stated. Like it was a fact , something written in a manual.

I got angry, because who was he to define femininity for me. A word I could colour like a blank canvas, but he decided to take the brush and splatter black paint all over my work of art.

“Neither are your clothes.” He spoke while continuing to destroy. My insecurities rising, my knuckles turning white from clenching my fists.

“But they’re me.”

I’m still the one painting this picture, it’s for me to decide if I dress in combat boots or in lace and frills. I can feel feminine in whatever I put on my body, just like I can be masculine in stiletto heels. Because you see, I’m the artist here.

You can have your opinion, your own work of art , but you don’t have the right to shape mine. Because it’s easy you see…

“I paint my own picture of femininity.”.

When things end

It took me a year to see that you and I were no longer we, trying to hold on to a puzzle but missing the essential piece. Using other mediums to fill the gap, because it’s easier to crumble together than to cry alone.

Holding hands felt like my fingers were entangled in electrical wiring, but the spark wasn’t exciting anymore, it was playing the waiting game until there was a negative charge. No longer one, but polar opposites.

We were like a rock but dissipated into grains of sand, small and fragile letting the wind carry us to new land. Reaching higher places, deeper grounds. If you and I are meant to be I will make sure that I will reappear. A pearl in a clam on the river bank, a hidden gem to be retrieved by those I deem worthy of loving me.

Sometimes things are meant to end, only to find them again.

10 reasons why I would be a great teacher

10. I know the difference between then and than and I will still be gentle in my error correction, even though you just got it wrong for the 36th time in one essay.

9. I expect you to make mistakes because that’s how we learn, but I will give you turns even if you don’t know the answer.

8. I don’t aim to be your friend and I’m not your parent. But if you’re being inconsiderate, aggressive or downright rude, I will call you out.

7. No you can’t go to the bathroom five minutes after lunch break.

6. You can borrow my pen, but I expect something in return. Loans come with interest, and I’m interested in your writing skills.

5. I see good qualities in everyone, and I’m not afraid to tell you about the amazing qualities you possess.

4. Every student is unique in their way of learning, what works for you might not work for someone else and I promise to take this into account.

3. Learning isn’t always fun, but I will try to put some humour in my lessons.

2. I’ll never be done learning myself, please teach me just as many things as I teach you.

1. I’m myself, and I won’t change this, and I want you to be able to be yourself too! To quote the incredible Dr. Seuss: “There’s no one alive that is youer than you.”

Breasts

The day I got breasts was when I got cast out of my group of friends.
I was ten, maybe eleven and really convinced that my chest would always be flat, that I would never be femme.
Thanks to these lumps of flesh I was no longer part of the gang, from one of the guys to object in less than a second.

I wanted to play tag, to build forts and laugh but the straps on my shoulders were traps and the confused stares and gasps made my eyes swell, tears rolling down cheeks as their parents said “girls can’t be knights” but if I’m not a knight then why do I have to wear armour with padding that makes my breasts seem twice their size? I refuse to push these lies, because these things on my chest do not bind me to the female sex.

I am not a girl, no she, not a woman, no lady. I’m me.

He.