“my body is a porno”

you say 

slurp, gag, pull, ride, blow, suck, choke on it. 

choke on what? 

my pleasure 

my discomfort 

my humanity? 

i guess 

i have sexualised myself beyond the point of no return

where a nude looks like a handshake 

where my body is yours, not mine 

i can’t finish without knowing how it started - 

me as a teacher, a preacher, a stepsister, 

whatever fantasy a man has created for me next

porn hasn’t ruined sex for men, it’s ruined me. 

you ask

‘what do you like in bed?’ 

i don’t know how to answer

without saying 

the last thing i saw on screen 

i say 

release your promises to take a palmful of hair 

let go of my hand to grab my throat instead 

drop the respect you held for me on the floor, 

so you can hold my tits better 

porn hasn’t ruined sex for me, it’s ruined me.

tell me 

i’m a bad girl, a good girl, just tell me 

i’m a girl you want to fuck 

i say 

when you’re done, leave me 

like i leave my porn - 

closed down, deleted history, 

a shame. 

porn hasn’t ruined sex for men, it’s ruined me. 

-Rachel Hepburn

“Spent Pages” 

Your core is like that book

A classic, blacklisted, mismarked and found

The one that has been tossed about 

Stuck at the bottom of that worn out bag 

Hidden between its overcrowded matters

It moves around within its flowing contents 

You know that book 

Stationed, resting on the nightstand 

From tousled and turned

To forgotten in seconds   

Left abandoned on springing mattresses

Wrapped within the rested blankets 

Misplaced and left unchecked 

Unnerved ready to be read again

Impatiently waiting for its spine to be opened 

The call for that story starts itching over

Climbing in envious clusters   

Your body becomes the pages of motions

Full of banked exchanges 

Flicked through

Run down 

Thorn and trimmed 

Sticky fingers 

Circle stirring

Nail marking

Swollen lips 

Thumbled words

Swallowed moans

Recto to verso   

Inked quotes 

Hungry hearts

And sounds quite unknown 

Full of traded bookmarks 

Made out of random grabbed things 

That don’t fit 

That don’t sit 

That don’t do it justice 

That don’t hold that passionate thought

But are all in grabbing distance 

Making the world spin on its axis 

Riddled with questions 

Noted with mentions 

Anguish at its chapters  

Quivering for its ending 

A muffle to the last paper sheet 

Until that spine is cracked wide 

With a collection of faint deepening lines  

To its faded letters and bleeding ink 

Till your pages are spent- 

‘til that desire to read that book 

                    Grows

                                 Again and again.  

-Anayis N. Der Hakopian

About the Artist

Sarah Faux is a painter living and working in Brooklyn, NY. Her fluid compositions teeter on the edge of reality, revealing how much of our emotional and sensory lives take place beneath the surface. Follow Sarah Faux on Instagram.

About the Poets

Rachel Hepburn lives in London and writes sad gal poetry in her spare time. She has previously placed in the6ress competition and had work featured in the 1998 and Honeyfire Literature Magazine. More of her writing can be found at @hepburnpoems on instagram.

Anayis N. Der Hakopian is a British Armenian director, 2D/mix media animator and writer based in London. When she isn’t stuck behind a computer screen she spends her free time writing poetry in the park whilst being mobbed by dogs. Follow more of her work here.