Ode to a Fuckboy

I’ll think when it gets light outside,

But know that I’ll feel just the same.

The way you made them feel inside;

Those smiles,

Those curls,

Those girls,

Those names.

And who am I to change the scene?

To get you stuck? To make you stay?

When every bright eyed minx before,

You’ve simply kissed and ran away.

I know that I can take some pain, 

A broken heart, am ache or two.

But when it’s a repeated scene,

It means it’s not just me or you.

I’m well aware that that’s the game.

The sun won’t shine for one, it’s true.

But what I can’t take is the shame,

Of knowing I’m just one to you.

Ross Lynn

Thank you so much for reading, more of my writing can be found on my Instagram here.

A Letter From the Only Black Female in the Credits

I spend time in movies being the side kick

Painting my nails, rolling eyes as my tongue clicks

Dancing and twerking while laughing at you

Thinking my role as the side chick will do

I have sex, I love it, I love being seen

I side-eye, I love it, I love being mean

Four kids and a baby, for which he is paying

Have exes on exes cause no man is staying

If he likes me I’m “chocolate” dark, sweet and a fetish

Never a princess. Princesses are born rich.

Never the bridesmaid and never the bride

Check the cast list for “extras” and that’s where I’ll hide

And if I am pretty, I’m “exotic” you mean it

Cause exotic means “beauty where you’re not used to seeing it”

Despite the Naomi’s, Vivicia’s, the B’s

Black beauty stays more of a myth than a scene

And even though knowing I’m not what they say

Not side-chick, or extra, or “jungle” fillet

There’s sadness in knowing despite who I am

They’ll cast me as extra cause I’m not a white man’

Ross Lynn

Thank you fore reading, I post a lot of my writing here on Instagram.

Inside My Head (a poem)

I think I made you up inside my head

I think you were an act of my design

And I’ve spent all these years making my bed

Carving a girl whose face was never mine

I think I made you “uglier” instead

Of every doll like feature you had on

I think I plucked the glitter from your head

And craft a wig of grey for you to don

And looking in the mirror I confess

I’ve painted you so blind to who you are

And it’s a wonder, mirror to my chest

I’ve dragged my very likeness down so far

Ross Lynn

This poem was written using a writng prompt which asked me to take the last line of a poem I loved and use it as the first line of my own. Naturally, I chose “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath, with the line
“I think I made you up inside my head” serving as both it’s last line and my first.

Thank you for reading ,

Love, Ross Lynn.

P.S I have an Instagram writing page here.

Wet Paint

I dropped a can

Of Orange

On the bed where we lay lying,

Too frivolous in nature to keep our touch from dying

Bruised fingertips

And swollen lips,

But none of them for me.

My stubbornness deters you from the place you ought to be.

I start to think that maybe we could make our shades in Purple:

My Blues

Your Pinks

If all combined could help us break this circle.

But in your eyes,

With their Green flecks,

The truth is all too clear:

You never will be simplified to shades in waves and tears.

So on this bed, I sit and keep our fingertips from grazing.

The scent of all my orange paint endearing but quite dazing

I smile to see you stand and leave,

I’m left with all but sorrow

I close my eyes and think about the wet sheets washed tomorrow.

Ross Lynn

P.S Thank for reading! I have an Instagram page where I post a lot more of my writing here.

“Pretty” By A Black Girl

I’ve always been entranced by blues

Though greens, they get me too, these days

Of course there are some darker hues

Which draw your eyes and make them stay

I seem to have been cursed with black

A colour that just disappears

Because of every hue it lacks

You’d never know that I was here

Despite this, I can pout my lips

You’d try and still not get the same

Long nails grow from my fingertips

And dark lashes, my eyes, they frame.

I know there are some lighter hues:

Blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes and more.

I seem to have been blessed with black

And my own face I can’t ignore.

Ross Lynn

Thank you for reading! I post of my writing on Instagram here.

Weekly Writing Prompt 1

If you look back far enough you can see it coming.

Red lipstick stains on soda cans, mouth pressed tightly so they could never see that you weren’t swallowing.

After dinner bathroom breaks that were always spent with the tap conveniently on full blast.

Offers of popcorn and Pringles and muffins routinely declined because you had always “unfortunately” just eaten.

This was all done again and again, measured against a scale and if the results weren’t adequate you just tightened the schedule, increased the dosage. 

Subconsciously you had always blamed your mother. She was both the cause and the symptom of a generation of women who were taught the best they had to offer could be seen in the white of their smile, the length of their long skinny hairless legs. Consciously, you always blamed yourself; for being unable to put down the fork after the fifth time it had entered your mouth, for thinking that your fries needed ketchup – for thinking that you needed fries at all.

You may be smart and you may be brilliant. But the world didn’t want or need you to be any of those things, it wanted you to be pretty. And what was prettier than a stomach gradually caving in and thighs that didn’t even brush against each other when you walked?

What was prettier than each calorie obsessively measured by an app before you even risked buying it? What was prettier than purging your stomach of all of its contents if you thought that you had indulged more than absolutely necessary? What was prettier than no carbs, no sugar, no meat, no fat and no dairy?  What was prettier than restraint?

Ross Lynn