amber can walk

Today is 30th August 2020. I am 22 years old. I gave up on wearing make-up around September of last year because I wasn't good at it. Also I was waking up at 6 every morning to get the train to work and didn't want to add another task to my to-do list.  My hair is long, all the way down my back and hasn't been cut in a long time. Which it probably needs. In general, I just ignore my split ends. I have a fringe. During the pandemic, I have been cutting it myself, which has been going okay. I actually manage to keep it fairly straight. A show I enjoyed recently was Pose. I have been struggling to keep up with TV shows that I haven't already watched. I have been making the most of the Disney + subscription in our house and re-watching shows like Hannah Montana and Wizards of Waverley Place. However, alongside this, I have been inching my way through Pose, a show about the ballroom scene in the 80s. It's beautiful and heartbreaking. It actually casts trans women to play

I'm unsure why I'm so anxious to post different kinds of writing to this blog. This is my blog and it's essentially just a portfolio of writing so any kind of writing should be worthy here, right? I thought I'd  post a poem here because that's actually the bulk of the writing I do. If you enjoyed it, please feel free to tip me on Ko-fi . Thanks x * An Alternate Discography of Kesha Rose i. HUNTED Milky pop princess/drawn through idle fingers like soft sand/what’s under my tongue?/a whole ocean?/INTERLUDE/I was dragged to suburbia with my spine undone/no eyes/no lips/the woman became a bear/the woman became a trapped animal/who’s still asking/‘what happened to the mother of this place?’ ii. UNHUNTED You watched me cannibalise myself/who am I now?/back-talk?/one full night?/no/I don’t need your drinks/or your money/if your drugs come near me/I’ll eat myself/and you/INTERLUDE/this began because I buried my heart beneath a pear tree/my cunt became a corpse/I became a gi

Let me know if this is you. You're sat in a classroom on a dull day, highlighting key quotes from To Kill A Mockingbird to use in the essay you're going to begrudgingly write. You're reading Shakespearean sonnets, counting out the beats so you actually know it was written in iambic pentameter.  You're struggling through a novel written over a 100 years ago because it was written in a really wonky way, and your teacher's only explanation for this is that this is 'just how they wrote back then.' I've been in these situations, and even with this, my English teachers were some of my favourites. With a good teacher, the world of critically reading books is as interesting as reading for pleasure. With a bad teacher, it feels like you're slowly pulling legs through stiff mud: you will get where you are going eventually, but it's going to be an agonising struggle. It is a shame that for most people, this is how they are introduced to classic literature,