Titty Trauma​

Devastated at my own tits.

how they sit.

that they aren’t exquisite.

don’t mean to be a dick

but if i could afford it

I’d get ozempic.

pic n instagram it

I’d be all over it

like leather skin to baby oil.

like girl in pigtails in

stirrups for the coil.

The least my tits could do

is make me happy,

how they move

but like my brain

woman, perky and game

they are too changeable.

unfed and miserable.

like my art teacher said,

the right side is a bit

better than the left

and I can’t do nothing

about it quite frankly,

sue me,

i can’t be bothered

with bodily

inconsistency,

sometimes i just

don’t see the beauty,

want to be Barbie

want to be Kylie

don’t like how I feel

in me looking at me,

they are relentless

but at least they

were free, definitely

for the man sitting

opposite me but what

I see is an apology.

they are shrinking.

will my boss get me

when i tell him that

i want a lobotomy,

that I’m ready

for my big break,

from myself –

 

​

 I can hear blue 

the human experience

delivers itself like gull shit,

hedonistic liquid pumped lunatics,

can’t afford to go abroad so we go to Brighton,

swallow a full fat flat white and shrooms,

become a bit monkey say monkey do like

look at me handstand in da sea!

you’re a sexy milk bottle bobbing towards me,

the sky is like every painting of heaven

and we’re pricks in the tapestry,

trying to keep our centre of gravity

whilst pebbles and tripping, eventually

we make it to base, shirts, a pepsi max and beach cloth,

I’m in snakeskin bikini top splayed across hot rocks.

not hiding anything.

it’s hard and so easy to crush,

like unsubscribing, wish I could have

rented legs and a tummy, but I hope

I’ve charmed you losing hours of my life

to a world I won’t remember,

that won’t remember me,

the day is drying up faster than any of us,

using chips to lick curry sauce off chops,

the waves stretch, soft rocks ricochet a salty mic drop,

I can hear blue, it’s fingers scraping through a barrel of pearls,

the cry of a girl with corkscrew curls,

I study myself in a funhouse mirror,

a sudden doom for a different time,

for next Thursday at 9, but you’re looking

out to the world with that invisible halo, mouth a soft o,

putting the lush in slush I’ll get the blue raspberry to go,

you forgot sunscreen so tomorrow

today’s agenda will enter your face,

the sun whipped your chest, crowned your temple

​

​​​

Ela Moss is a London-based writer and director for stage, as well as a poet. They love to play with rhyme and strong voices in their writing, and often explore feelings of fear, wonderment, and preoccupation with place. They are Welsh-speaking but grew up in Hong Kong – an experience that gave them an appreciation for accents and voices which seeps into their characters and work.