Aspen Writes Poetry

Poundland. Fluorescent hum, too bright. The bottle—isotonic pink fizz, glucose, rescue— clutched in my shaking hand. Energy drink, says the cashier, shaking her head. Not old enough. I smile, 24 and shrinking, my legs jelly, my hands static-buzz. No hunger, just low, brain misfiring like a dodgy plug. FND. Wonky wiring. Outside, the pavement tilts. I perch on a bench, heart tap-dancing, muscles ghosting a seizure not yet there. Breathe. Wait. The library doors hush open—warmth, sanctuary. No questions, just a woman who nods toward the coffee station.  Cups, sugar, kindness. I tip in two spoonfuls, stir the world steady. Sip. Feel myself come back. Thank you, government, for making life too expensive to live, denying pensioners heating, but at least today, you gave me somewhere to stop falling.

 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 '𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦' 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾-  𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗌𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝖾— 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖡𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖦𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖠𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇? 𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅? 𝖮𝗋 𝖺𝗆 𝖨 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇? 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖾— 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗂...

It started with a stain, rust-dark,   smudged on white cotton—small as a coin.   A pain low in my stomach,   a fist unclenching,   the slow ache of something leaving.   I counted back—   weeks folded like laundry,   days misplaced in diaries,   the morning sickness I called a bad egg,   the tiredness blamed on winter.   On the bathroom floor, tiles cold as milk,   I bled out what I didn’t know I had,   clots thick as pomegranate seeds,   a life I never meant to make   slipping through my fingers.   After, I held my stomach,   hollow as a pocket, empty as a glove.   Googled things in the dark,   read words I didn’t want to own:   miscarriage. loss. tissue.   Outside, a robin scratched at the soil,   digging for worms, its belly bright   as the blood in the bowl of the toi...

My legs forget themselves,   fold like unanswered letters.   The ground tilts—   or maybe I do.   My stomach twists, a clenched fist,   a small animal gnawing at my ribs.   Food is a gamble.   Water is a dare.   The doctor nods,   writes words that don’t explain—   functional, irritable, chronic.   As if naming it makes it kinder.   Am I ill, or just   a body misfiring, a machine   built with crossed wires?   Either way, I am here,   learning to walk on uncertain legs,   to breathe through the ache,   to exist despite the script   my nerves insist on writing.

The algorithm knows what you want to see.   It plants the seeds, waters them, waits.   Your friend—let’s call her Katherine—clicks Like  on a post about Britain, Great, Again.   Next time, it’s a video:   men on boats, women in hijabs,   the soundtrack a low hum of fear.   Katherine watches. The algorithm smiles.   The next one is angrier.   Share.   It’s not about you, Katherine says,   you’re different, you’re one of the good ones.  Meanwhile, my sister holds her gaze across the dinner table,   her Polish boyfriend silent.   Meanwhile, my spine aches, my hands shake,   and the next post says   no benefits for those who can’t pull their weight.   Meanwhile, my friends say   they love me, but click Like on those who hate me.   Katherine shrugs. It's just politics.   It’s just the news.   It...

I was called in to write lines. I will not push others to make myself noticed. The chalk felt heavy in my hand, a weight for what I had done— for the shove that pushed him not off the bench, but out of the room. He was crying. His brother gone - a word that didn’t fit, a word that never felt real, but I saw the way people looked at him, like he was broken, like he was glass, as if their eyes would shatter him too. And I wanted the eyes on me. So I pushed. I will not push others to make myself noticed. The words are strange, as though writing them should fix it, but they only make it worse. Each stroke, a reminder of his face crumpling like paper, his hands shaking - words stuck behind them and the weight of his brother’s death pressing down on us all. Mr Howorth doesn’t understand. He stands at the front, his voice thick like wool, saying, “Think about how your actions affect others.” But what does he know? He doesn’t see the way the classroom holds its breath when he walks in. The way...

You think you know us.   You’ve read the headlines,   seen the stock photos—   a cigarette, a stained sofa,   a pram in the background,   always too many children,   always too many needs.   You think we are taking,   that we are open mouths,   palms upturned like beggars,   siphoning your hard-earned tax,   as if your coins don’t melt in our hands,   as if your system wasn’t built   on someone else’s back.   But here’s the truth—   we are the ones you don’t see.   The mother hiding her hunger   so her child can eat.   The disabled man rationing painkillers   because there’s a month till his next prescription.   The worker on minimum wage,   counting pennies like prayers,   because rent ate the paycheck whole.   We are the scaffolding   you pretend is...