On Identity and On Girlhood: A Thesis
The strawberry girl can no longer feel the sensation of her clavicles, yet she rubs and rubs
Followed by prayer and the hope to take advantage of her upper-middle class origins to make
something of her hypochondriac, yet self-denying spirit
It’s been a matter of 12 days, that’s what all the ghosts and spiders say
How is it that an eternity has changed?
Because fuck, he said that this was preferable to that eternity, born out of the worst possible outcome
The angels on the frontline are ill-equipped to chase away the night terrors and convulsions of grief
Her relevance drips away
And on girlhood
Careless adolescence
It began with blow pops, ice cream, and six dollar combo meals
The desire to smoke cigarettes off the curbside and make my hair blonde
Yearning for the comfort of lust, rubbing myself raw with desire
My hymen was broken on a beach towel and I collapsed in the bathtub
I ran from the police, and I began to make myself sick
Leaving blood on dorm room floors, I was tethered, collared, and sliced up
My aspirations of vulnerability, of exposed collarbones and cheap lingerie were never satiated
The refusal to build myself up to knock down dark and brooding men persists
Like the cathartic release of uterine lining, innocence cannot be returned once it is shed
And on intimacy
Yes, I smell of copper
I ask of you, you blessed mixture of baggage:
Do you faint at the sight of blood?
You lack perspective on differing sensations
If you demand to keep your clammy hands gloved, I’m afraid you can’t lie with me
I’ve been bleeding for 9 months now, almost as long as I’ve been deprived of sleep
When we reunite, lay with me tentatively
Let me rub your back tile it turns raw and bleeds
I can seldom stay the night, you’re a parasitic, vampire-like beast
I wish to be well-rested when I leave
You are what I want, not what I need
Floodgates
I remember when the pond at Central Park was drained
And as mild mannered adolescents we walked onto the stones and grit
and crawled inside the floodgates
to search for the people, who the local legends and myths stated
lived inside, leaving rusty beer cans and dog-tired clothing behind
I talked to my vacuous friends about my adventurist ramblings
Drawn out with black markers onto bus stops and bathroom stalls
And they hardly spoke
for the river was gone and they were listening for any subtle movements
It was the season
to listen to Bauhaus and sit in our attics
The people who were thought of to dwell in these abandoned dark caves
were likely wayward and crude minors like ourselves
who found a sanctuary to hide from their parents, or perhaps bylaw officers
and they likely didn’t overstay their welcomes
as these dwellings were damp, and you may catch a cold
The intoxicating heat of late June is rising beneath the clouds
The murky pond water has now returned, before my eyes
so it would be foolish to crawl into the floodgates
What is coming up towards you now?
Gabrielle Rose Place is a poet,artist, political organizer, and student from Ottawa,Ontario. Her poems cover the topics of love and heartbreak, trauma, mental illness, and memories. Outside of pursuing her
lifelong love of poetry, she is working towards a career in the field of Early Childhood Education, and has a special interest surrounding child development, and eventually aspires to work with at-risk children and youth. Gabrielle also holds anti-capitalist and feminist views and is involved in political organizing in her home city of
Ottawa. To see her latest poetry and art, follow her on Instagram at gabrose.art.
The Literary Forest Poetry Magazine 