Une Femme Libre

(Disclosure: the following poem contains allusions to suicide and self harm. If you struggle with these thoughts in any way, please, decide for yourself if you should read this. We should not be afraid to talk about mental health, and that's what I'm doing here today, but know your own limits and do not push yourself.) What use is the 999 when they won't send somebody unless there's a body Unless there's a villain masked and oddly enough 'Is the patient still breathing' is not something to be asked when the patient is alive but not well Living but no one can tell what hell she's lived through The things she's done or that have been done to You walked away your white jacket shining bright as the night enveloped you like a beacon to our wary eyes But we needed no beacon to hear your cries concealed behind the 'do you have a cigarette' and 'I want to be left alone' but you knew we wouldn't, couldn't do that Up...

F*ck the education of the younger generation, right? Because grades are getting lower and expectations are getting higher We're not allowed to ask why or how we're meant to pass our classes Passing out in bed after a long day, textbooks in the way of our closing eyelids Sleep Precious sleep that we can never achieve because wealth is more valued than health To hell with your Zs when all you need are As to get through this life To get a wife and a house and a kid and a car and a job and a dog and so what? For what? Divorce Joint custody Eviction Repossession Regression Depression If mental health was treated like abortion at least we'd talk about it more than the hushed voices and whispers of lives lost too early, of children turned surly, of thoughts turning sour in the darkest hour of our minds Be kind It's as simple as that Tell each other 'you're doing your best, and that's all anyone could expect' The insouciants who brush ...

The effect of media on female body image and mental health: In other words, the f*cked up world that is women's magazines and other female-specific media I wanted to be blonde. Blonde girls got all the guys. Blonde girls were prettier, cuter, hotter. They had tanned skin and clear, blue eyes and perfect, straight, white teeth that shone when they flashed their Hollywood smiles. Or, at least, that's what I gathered from TV. My friend home-dyed my long brown hair for me, badly. The smell of bleach and other chemicals tainted the air in my living room, stinging my eyes and nostrils, while the dye itself was burning my scalp. The box said 'light golden blonde', but after I washed away the paste, I was left with my dark brown roots and copper hair. I was horrified. I was undeniably  not  blonde. And I stayed looking like a Weasley for almost a year, slowly letting my hair grow out, until my 17th birthday when I finally gave in and went to the hairdressers to get it dye...

She is not a prude Nor is she rude For the way she dresses we all confess is her attitude to the world she lives in The stress of it all coming down to her outfit of the day not the things we say When we say no but the dress says yes I cannot digress We must not repress These allegations Leading to accusations Of instigations through attire I tire of these stories of worries of fire in their eyes while we beg them please Stop   Stop   Stop the blaming Stop the shaming Because before we came into this world we were all innocent and the same Until we were given labels within which to frame ourselves and others   But now we shame the mothers and blame the covers we wear As our expression Fade to depression in succession It’s the definition of insanity It’s uncanny Like the Inquisition overwhelmed with interrogation But never of this big corporation Rather a fixation on placation of urbanity   H...