HLR

We Sigh

In the bathroom you sighed as you applied

bio-oil onto the red & white

lines that brand my inner forearms.

Wrapping my limbs in cling film

you said, with forced optimism,

I want your scars to disappear
so that you can wear
short-sleeved tops
when it’s hot outside

to which I replied, for the nth time

I want to disappear
so that the sadness stops.

“Pardon?” “Nothing,” I lied & sighed.

We sigh a lot these days; sighs of frustration

& exasperation, not contentment or gentle admiration;

you may want to fix my outside but we both know that

the real damage lies inside & so we sigh:

heavy breaths that reiterate that you have tried, & tried

so many times, that remind me that

I am still alive, sighs that aren’t the good kind or the right kind,

that have no place in a happy home, that reverberate through walls

& echo along bone, sighs that change absolutely nothing,

nothing at all so, still, we sigh.

Originally published by Outcast Press (Poetry Vol 4)

 

Ways In Which Your Body Stopped You From Living Your Dreams

You wanted to be a prima ballerina but childhood malnourishment & dire poverty made your
bones too weak, your tiny joints crumbled with your dreams.

You wanted to join a nunnery but your parents couldn’t pay your confirmation fees so you
chose a different form of devotion—all men, instead of just the one—& promptly lost your
virginity.

You wanted to join the army but your back-story, addictions & disordered personality make
you ‘a loose fucking cannon’ ‘a ticking time-bomb’ & ‘too much of a liability.’

You wanted to be a florist but have been told that you can’t be trusted with a fork, let alone
sharp scissors & the desire to drag thorns across your wrists or grip cacti in your fists makes
it all too risky for everybody.

You wanted—more than anything—to be dead, gone, non-existent, but despite your best
efforts, your body never let you: it refused, once again, to give you what you wanted & so
now, seemingly, you have no choice but to be the thing that you don’t want to be: awake,
breathing, alive.

Hair

Brunette, naturally, no longer
your crowning glory

used to be: ringlets, Disney princess
nowadays: burnt straw, coarse rats’ tails

“you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge
backwards,” is something that your Dad always said

dyed every colour under the sun at least once:
in your police mugshot, your hair is green

kitchen scissor haircuts only:
a salon? you’ve never been

started going grey at 22 years of age
chopchopchop it all off, hack away:

no point wasting
time looking

after something
that grows

already
dead.

From ‘Portrait of the Poet as a Hot Mess’ by HLR (Ghost City Press, 2021)

HLR (she/her) is a prize-winning poet, working-class writer, and professional editor from north London. Her work has been widely published since 2012, most recently by Hobart. HLR is the author of History of Present Complaint (Close to the Bone) and Portrait of the Poet as a Hot Mess (Ghost City Press). Twitter: @HLRwriter