Chick Lit By Rhiannon McGavin

All our injuries rhyme


Disclaimer: I adore her. I hold an extremely biased view when it comes to her work. Which you can find here (youtube), here (official website) and here (Tumblr). I know there has been an influx of poems here lately, but bear with me.
I swear to God if I am, one day, even half as good as her, I will need nothing more in life. It’s best to listen to her perform that poetry herself. Which, for this particular poem, you can here.
This is about women in fiction. 


Edgar Allen Poe said,
“The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.”
Except I think that the most poetic thing is the dress that my mom wore in France when she was pregnant.
It’s yellowed with flowers, it stretched to fit her and shrinks to hold me now.
There’s a sonnet in each of my grandma’s old lipsticks, and all the coats that my aunt wears.
Another device in any piece of clothing deemed lucky.
In fact, the poetry is in my neighbor explaining how her parents survived a genocide that spoke four languages,
Or maybe the enjambment sobs in the shower, fruit aisle, and best friend’s car sinking through deep summer.
All our injuries rhyme.
From singing with a sore throat to a mattress heavier than god.
The freckle on my right palm, tracing every capillary popped on purpose and stomach caesuras.
Who else could place scars into genres?
I’ve seen better poems in rising bread than anything Bukowski dreamed of,
That Hemingway demanded, that Sartre petitioned for.
They can excuse scaring women for art, though if you are a scared woman they tie your art back to your crazy.
It leaks through the gallery.
Like it’s crazy how a couple of movies are worth more than children,
as if they cannot see the fingerprints on the film strip.

And I guess it’s a good song but that bass drum sounds like internal bruising,
We don’t dance to those at my house.
The violence of creative men is more of a burning library than a closed book,
and you choose what you want to read.
So I concur that picking graveyard dirt out of my nails is of highest literary value.
So, the most poetical topic is me, slumped on my desk, sleeping through every English class for the rest of the year after my teacher said he didn’t know of any female writers good enough to study.
No one, in that damned mob of scribbling women, was worth discussion,
since we were only supposed to be the flourish, the adverb
the stage he walks on,
the spit on his finger so he can flip a page,
and we can’t bite the hand that feeds us.
Can’t swat away pens that dip in our pretty corpses.
He sweats corn syrup and red dye and needs someone to hurt for him,
but I can stand straight without balancing them on my head.
I have always washed my troubles in extra mascara so they are defined in the spotlight, molded them to hold a rapier for the finale,
taught them how to speak from the gut even when you’re crying, even when the voice shakes, to project.
So all the women who ever pressed their thumb onto my cheeks can watch me live from the back row,
and the ghosts above the theater –
They can see us, too.




Okay, so right???!!!!!! So many things to say about this. Like “a genocide that spoke four languages”, “And I guess it’s a good song but that bass drum sounds like internal bruising” and just fkbkhsfhfbj dfhfdjkjkgbkj. 
Feel free to discuss with me, at length, just how amazing this is. 

Biology is also one of my favorites. It’s one of her lighter pieces. Brilliant. As is Hereditary.  And Cheers.
Things That Could Happen To A Girl Wearing Jeans gives me all the warm fuzzies, while also reminding me how I have no friends. FUN.

Just everything she does, in general. I have a lot of feelings about her. Please share in my obsession.

Yours Truly,

P.S: If you did bother to check it out, how chill is her youtube space, though? I love it. Beautiful.

P.P.S: If I haven’t yet sold you on her, she was also part of a poetry trio called Poetpuff Girls. ’nuff said.

Rhiannon McGavin: Instagram



Teenage Writing. A Satire

This is by no means a serious blog post. More of a rant. Yes, i original, but I have recently come down with a serious bout of writer’s block, and really, I’m allowed to be typical once or twice, okay! Anyway, if you (unfortunately,like me) have ever searched the web for ‘teen fiction’ in the hopes that you might come across something along the lines of Jacqueline Wilson’s works (hey, I read ‘serious’, “intelligent” books too, okay!), then you might be all too familiar with the horrible cliches that inevitably accompany any “teen” stories written by teens. And yes it’s true that I’ve also come across some good work (basically anything associated with the Scholastic competitions), but sadly, these are few and far between. Anyway, I do not mean to offend anyone, and this has been written purely due to boredom and completely in jest.


God, do I hate that blasted thing! It is, like, so annoying! I mean, seriously, can’t it just shut the *insert inappropriate and completely unnecessary swear word* up? UGH! *Proceeds to go on a long tirade on exactly how much she hates the alarm clock—you know, just in case it wasn’t already apparent to the reader when they read the opening line where she explicitly stated that she hated “that blasted thing”*

I get up and put on my totally cute bunny slippers and got to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I look in the mirror. I see blue eyes which shine oh-so-adorably when I smile or laugh, naturally blond hair with natural highlights and naturals curls, long eyelashes, a cute button nose and basically cute everything. Yes, you guessed it, I’m an ugly nerd. Ugh, I hate myself!

I take a shower and put on my dark green Led Zeppelin t-shirt and open my closet with the Green Day poster and take out my dark blue jeans with the logo of some cool band or the other. Now you see, I mentioned this completely unnecessary and boring piece of information because I absolutely have to make it clear to the reader that I’m a cool teenager who likes old bands because it’s so cool to like them and said love for cool music is so rare especially among teenagers which is why I’m an outcast. So is it clear that I have cool taste in music?

Reader: Crystal.

Okay, good, moving on.

I look at the alarm clock (that blasted thing) and OH GOD, I’M LATE!! I run down the stairs and see my mom making breakfast. “Hey, c’mon down, I made bacon”, my Mom says as she sets down a plate for me. My brother is already at the table, stuffing himself with toast. We exchange witty banter where he calls me a gorilla and I say something very intelligent back to him which causes my mom to speak up in defence of my brother. God, why does she always do this?! I’m sooooo misunderstood!!

“But Mo-om, he called me a gorilla first!” I protest.

My Mom says, “Cody (or some other typical brother name), don’t call your sister a gorilla. She is your sister and you should respect her”

“OH MY GOD MOM, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS TAKE HIS SIDE!! THIS IS SO UNFAIR!” I wail. How can she do this to me? Ugh, I hate my mom! I feel tears coming down my cheeks, because you know, it’s totally normal for a teenager to cry over something like this—I mean obviously, my family life is totally tragic.

I run out of my house and see my best friend sitting in his car waiting for me. He lives across the street and I’ve known him since I was 5. He sees I’m upset and immediately hugs me.

“Bella, are you okay?”

I nod and wipe away a single dramatic tear and say, “Just my mom, you know. I mean, I’m so nice to her and she had the nerve to defend me to my brother!”

He nods understandingly, “The *insert derogatory term for females*! Anyway, let’s get to school. You shouldn’t let her ruin your day”

I smile gratefully up at him and get into his 2006 Maserati Spyder—yeah, his middle-class parents are totally fine with their 17 year old son driving this expensive Italian car.

We enter the school parking lot and that’s when I see them. The clique. They’re driving their hot-pink car which has pink leather seats and a pink boa constrictor in the back display. Yes they have a live snake in their car. And it’s pink. And they’re totally cool with it.

I see Evan (that’s the name of my best friend—I didn’t mention that before? Oh silly me) looking at Candy (or some other incredibly fake name) and feel this horrible emotion going through me. Weird. What could it possibly be? And why does it surface only when I see Evan looking or talking to other girls? Wait…it isn’t..? No! Is it? OH MY GOD I’M TOTALLY JEALOUS!! Yes, my best friend is incredibly handsome but I never thought of him that way! Did I? No, of course not, I’m a nerd and guys like him don’t go for nerds. I mean I’m a nerd!  What could he possibly see in me? Nerds are so disgusting and boring—yeah sure, in ten years they will be the most successful, but never mind that because this is high school and having an insecure nerdy female protagonist is imperative.

Candy (or some other incred—oh no wait, I already said that) gracefully steps out of her pink car with the pink leather seats and pink boa constrictor and saunters—yes, saunters, because that’s what hot girls do, they saunter. Sometimes they sashay, you know, just to mix it up a little—over to Evan’s car.

She takes out the red lollipop and smiles seductively at Evan.

“Hey gorgeous (or some other synonym of ‘hot’)”

The *insert word which indicates she has loose morals*.  Evan smiles up at her, “Umm…hi Candy”

Ugh, I hate Candy!

I can’t take this shameless flirting anymore and rush to the school building. There I see my other best friend, Betty.

“Hi!” Betty greets me enthusiastically.

I grunt at her because I’m in such a foul mood. First my Mom and now Candy. Ugh, I hate my mom and Candy!

“Is everything okay?” Betty looks at me concernedly.

“Just that *insert word used to describe a girl with loose morals* Candy again. I mean, how can I ever compete with her? She’s the popular, pretty girl who Evan barely knows and I’m the nerdy best friend whose known him since he was five. They’re so going to end up dating and I’m going to be alone forever”

“Hey, it’s okay”, Betty soothes me, “Besides, did you hear the news? One Direction is coming to play in our school. Because even though they are incredibly famous, they like to play in obscure high schools in obscure towns”

Wow. One Direction! Squeeeeeeee!!!!!!! Yes, I’m wearing a Led Zep t-shirt, but that was to simply make a statement! Plus there are so many Led Zep fans who are also Directioners and faithful fans of Nicki Minaj!

“Really! Yus!” And we high-five. And then I’m suddenly knocked down by somebody. Have I mentioned I’m a nerd? Yeah so, I’m a nerd. Which translates into invisible in high school—as in nobody sees me and so I’m frequently stepped on in the hallways.

As I’m struggling to get up, an unidentified male offers me his hand. I absent-mindedly take it and when I look up, it’s to see *the eye colour of Harry Styles* eyes looking at me. “Hey, you okay?” a deep voice asks me. I nod, mesmerised by the eyes. My best friend has mysteriously disappeared—mainly because the author of this story cannot have her interrupting this deep moment that Bella is having with the cute boy; yeah sure Bella was knocked over, but really, if Betty were to offer her help, then there would be no deep moment that Bella is having with the cute boy, so she had to go.

“Umm..thanks..for..helping me. I’m so clumsy! I’m a nerd, you see. So basically everything about me is dependent on that one aspect of me…But thanks for helping me…did I mention I’m a nerd? Oh god, I’m rambling….even though a ramble has to be lengthy, the writer has decided that I’m rambling with just those few sentences because it’s of great importance that I’m rambling because every insecure, nerdy female protagonist has to ramble because it’s such a “cute” characteristic.”


I shut up then. God, I made such a big fool of myself! As I’m standing there, giving a lengthy monologue in my head about exactly how big a fool I made of myself, I suddenly realize where I’ve seen those eyes before. My eyes whip back at him. Yep…

“Wait, you’re…! Oh my god!” I splutter

He immediately puts a hand over my mouth “Sshhhh! No one can know! I’m under disguise!”

“So, you’re really Harry Styles…?!! Squuuuueeeeeee!!!!” I whisper

“Yes” He whispers back at me. And his head is so close to mine and I see him look down at my lips and I lick my lips unconsciously and I see his head slowly tilting towards mine and I close my eyes in anticipation—

Reader: Woah, wait! She met this boy all of 2 paragraphs ago, and now, they’re kissing??!!!!

Author: No! Of course not! I can’t have them kissing so early in the story! I have to draw it out and make it super angst-y and stuff. And you would know that if you just kept reading!

Right, so where was I? Oh right: and I see his head slowly tilting towards mine and I close my eyes in anticipation—but I find myself violently jerked out of Harry’s embrace (yes a famous person was embracing this totally random, creepy chick in an obscure high school)

Evan’s stony, angry eyes glare at me, and then at Harry before he drags me away.

“What. The. Hell. Was. That? He questions me angrily. And I know he’s dead serious because of his improper use of punctuation in order to emphasize on his anger.

“What was that? Only the most awesome almost-kiss ever!” I squeal, before becoming angry and saying, “But what’s it to you, anyway? It’s not like you would care! You have your Candy. Is it really so improbable that a guy might find me almost-kiss-able?? I know I’m a nerd, but is it really so ridiculous? I don’t see why you would care!” I turn on my heels and angrily stomp off. I hear him saying something.

It seems like he said, “Because I love you”, but that’s, like, so crazy! I probably just imagined it! God, when will I be over him?

I hear footsteps behind me and whirl around, “Evan, I can’t deal wi—“

“Uhhh…Evan who?” Harry asks me. Oh. Its him.

I blush suddenly because I remember the almost-kiss. He smirks—yes, smirks, because that’s what cute guys do, they smirk. Sometimes they grin charmingly, you know, just to mix it up—and says, “Want to continue where we left off?”

I blush even harder and am just about to reply when–
“No, she doesn’t!” Evan comes out of nowhere and practically growls at Harry. I look at him surprised. “Didn’t seem like that before, mate” Harry replies

I practically swoon at his British accent. God, Brits are so….awesome!

That’s when Evan turns into a werewolf and pounces on Harry—who is a vampire..? And suddenly I feel a slight breeze at the base of my neck and look behind to see that I’ve sprouted..wings?!

I hover over the two, and yell: “Evan, you didn’t tell me you were a werewolf!”

Evan replies mid-snarl, “I had to wait for a really dramatic moment and until a love triangle develops before I could tell you”

“ triangle? You….love me? But I’m a nerd!!” I’m  so surprised.

“No, Bella, you’re beautiful.” Evan says. *cue lovesick sigh*

“Wow….so you wanna be girlfriend-boyfriend?”

“Yeah! Just a moment while I deal with this git”

And that’s when I remember about Harry. British Harry. I’m suddenly bowled over by a realization. I love him!

“Wait, Evan I can’t be your girlfriend…I love Harry!” I look down to see Evan’s reaction and notice that the fighting has ceased. Instead Evan and Harry are gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.

“Evan…your eyes..”

“No, Harry…your eyes..”

Wait. Say what now?

Betty suddenly pops up, “Oooh! I so ship Evarry!”

Ugh, I hate my life!