TO MY YOUNG SELF
I am the keeper of our memories
I am the bearer of our flame
And the author of our wrongdoing
I am the blameless and to blame
I am the survivor of our history
Of our triumphs and our plight
I wear the badge of hard-won freedoms
And the scars of the long fight
Forgive us in youth
Forgive them in age
Hold fast to your righteous anger
Let go of your rage
Tread lightly
We are almost there
Brook Hobbins, Kent
Can we drown the wave dreams now please?
When the wave comes
And you run,
sister scooped by mum
Dad carries the stuff
And lonely you
Run
Those three year old legs
Won!
Ta for that!
Harriet McDonald
Whitstable
Things that should have been said
You have extraordinary hair. The colour, blue-black. Unusual and beautiful.
You are clever, sharp minded, quick witted.
Whatever you become is just fine – rocket scientist, factory worker – so long as you are happy is
what matters.
Well done!
You make us proud.
This is what kindness actually looks like.
Things that should not have been said
Why can’t you be…..
Lel, Scarborough
Hats
Lesbians and teenage boys
You wear it well
Turned back and turned up
Security camera disguised
Or gang member badge so you know I’m cool enough to know I’m not cool enough at 50
to share a rebellious moment or team logo
worn in pride at the win one goal more or one goal more achievements
while we still had the legs for it in weekends
fitting in with the gang at last.
Janet Jones
Brighton
Boy be you
Be the curly floppy hair and big boots
Be the hidden
Inside porkpie hats.
Be the barricade of smoke
of the red and white box.
Hide for this while to keep
you safe
You can’t say all the
words yet
But out will come Someday soon.
Boy treat your woes with
dreams of what could be
Channel the worry down
a tunnel
Holding on until the end
You won’t waste time
You won’t like it for a while
But boy the light will
heal you
As the big boots step out
into the light and swap for
heels.
As the flopping curly hair is
ready for bleaching sprayed
with glitter.
As the smoky barricades
become fresh air to breath
and make you live.
Boy be more gentle for now
you will get there
Boy keep safer than you
have been.
Hold tight.
Adam Haylock-Lott
Kent
With two weeks to go there is still time to contribute to celebrating and creating our own LGBTQI+ History in FebulousFebruary 2024.
Please email: fionarose@gmail with your piece of creative writing on the theme ‘To your childhood self’ (max 500 words).
all the best for now,
FioxiRose X
To my childhood self
They had you pegged as being a bit ‘Tim, nice but dim’
but look what you had to work with;,
A 1950’s curriculum and mediocre teaching.
You still haven’t got to grips with the British line of succession,(probably due to trauma)
and you don’t give a toss about the national product of Brazil.
My poor girl. You were such a timid little thing,
Fearful of the girls at school, with their cruel mouths.
Fearful at home, with harsh blows.
But don’t worry my darling.
Turns out you are really quite clever,
And so very brave,
to arrive at being me.
Meg Williams
LLanbrynmair
17-7-70
As a man of seventy,
I think of the boy of 17.
I think too of the boy age 7.
So long ago, yet so recent.
Memories still surface, of events before adolescence.
Fears, fun, freaking out at stupid things, if only I had been stronger…
Bodies metamorphose in ten years,
The joys for boys age seven, are toys and tricks and treats.
For the boychild, the merest ‘ten years older,’ things have changed so much.
Teddies and lollies, toy cars and kids stuff, condemned to the cupboard.
Bodies grow stronger, desires all grow bolder.
Boys seek out girls girls seek out boys.
Unless you’re not normal.
“Normal?” What could ‘normal’ mean.
A penury of loneliness, Darkness descends every waking hour, shoving you into a cupboard, a soulless existence, experienced by Teddies worldwide.
His cupboard is a tomb,
a closet, by name undecided,
an island,
a well,
a desert.
A hellhole for loneliness and pain, wanton self destruction just lurks there,
gorging on loneliness and desire.
Till come the moment boychild can grow some more.
Girlchild can feel this too, equally lost, equally lonely, crying, and all alone.
Perceptions, realisations, the comfort of a friend, parents support, ‘if you’re lucky!’
But if you’re not? Seventeen creeps to twenty one, Twenty three the next primary number, the next primary year in ageing.
Aged then ticking to 70, looking back becomes a regular occupation.
Remember this? Remember that? Remember what? What happened to him?
Remember that first love of growing, kissing a boy, kissing a girl.
Maybe a dare, maybe a care. Let yourself go, unbuckle the chest you locked yourself in. Open the closet, cuddle old Teddy in your mind.
And in that moment of freedom, take a step, a tentative step, and maybe like this old man of seventy, if your lucky, that’s true, life won’t seem quite so bad.
Everything started with a small step, everything demands something of you.
But remember then your first loves, toys and cars and bears
Remember how you grew to love them, likewise you made your own luck, You gave yourselves some talking to,
But mostly, you gave yourself, a ‘Hug.’
Peter Cronin-Hill ( composed 1st February 2024)
Whitstable.
To my childhood self:
Girl, sit down.
Breathe. You are so loved.
Learn to love yourself too
Because self love will keep you going.
Their fighting doesn’t define you.
Don’t let it affect you.
Keep your head above water the best you can.
Breathe.
Those you judge you.
Their judgement doesn’t mean you’re it.
Don’t listen to them,
Breathe.
He who torments you, he’s not it.
This isn’t love. It’s toxicity.
Don’t listen to him.
Just breathe.
Future you will be proud and strong.
Educated and independent.
The echoes of the past will haunt you,
But try not to let the shit stick.
Girl, sit down and breathe.
Lauren Lynch
Christchurch, Aotearoa
FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph 