Biopsy of Shame
CW: blood, fgm, assault
Children have to know their anatomy, you say
You say they have to dissect bloody hearts
They have to watch the sopping slab of meat flop
and bend their rusted scalpel
and smell the stench that’s been laying there
since the teacher clocked in that morning.
No, you say, we cannot let your child opt out of this
No, you say, we cannot let your child opt out of this
What kind of people would we raise
if they didn’t know their own body?
Girl will gossip about last night
Girl will gossip about last night
that she bled
that she was pretty sure it was normal
It was normal, right?
that he took charge
that it hurt in her vulva vagina
it hurt in her
Dull projector buzzing
female genital mutilation
no mention of labiaplasty
or clitoridectomies or shame
Because if you taught that
you’d have to confess
what you’ve done
All the blood
All the children slipping into the bathroom
with the scissors that Mum uses to cut chicken
cowering and shaking
at every snip
Girl will bunch paper in her underwear
Girl will bunch paper in her underwear
ready for her new life, her new confidence
now she’s pretty
she’ll try to focus on her biology lesson
drawing diagrams in her sparkly notebook
using the new fountain pen she got for Christmas
she’ll feel the blood pooling under her
you can’t be excused
you can’t miss such an important chapter
it could be a 6-mark question
Heading Home: A Postcard
CW: queerphobia
My rickety squeaky train- paper ticket
barcodes haven’t been invented
yet back home
and I smile
I chat with the hairdresser
I chat with the hairdresser
I’ve gone to since I picked tufts of
ultra-blonde hair off the floor
I watch her waddle past, as I recline into the sink
the radio saved from another time
the radio saved from another time
stowed away under a desk
is floating around the salon
the rest is still unwritten
the co-op down the road’s got a new sign
the co-op down the road’s got a new sign
it’s grey and blue, it lights up at night
it tries to run, to catch the rail links to Central- make em proud!
the light starts blinking a couple months in
the light starts blinking a couple months in
teens throw pebbles as after-school bonding
the people’s protest succeeds
we dance under the twinkling sign
the old lady theatre, where I used to
the old lady theatre, where I used to
buy whirring lights with mum’s twenty
hosts homemade pride in the courtyard,
the town’s first
must’ve snuck through a hole in the time capsule
must’ve snuck through a hole in the time capsule
but it shapeshifts,
lest it end up like the co-op
opts for x-factor runners up, in lieu of Fergie
I go and I’m eternally six
I go and I’m eternally six
watching pixie-cut peter pan fly,
an early christmas present
kids who whispered “queer”
kids who whispered “queer”
hold flags and sing
and we make eye contact
and I smile
A Response to the RSE Report (and hate and fear)
CW: queerphobia
Sandy Swain is a young writer from Kent, filling the niche intersection between mental health, bisexuality, and musical theatre. Her work combines feminist issues with other important things in her life, like Greggs sausage rolls and The Chase. Find her at her Twitter @sandyswainwrite or her Instagram @sandyswainwrites.
The Marbled Sigh 