if I were a modern-day dorian gray
I’d hide all my sins in a private instagram account
a sinsta, if you will
to put the photo evidence of all the lies I’ve told
all the birthdays that I’ve missed
boys I should never have kissed
friends I let down and everything I gave up
it wouldn’t have photos of me post-gym
but post-binge, post-cry, post-wank
post-eating-ham-out-the-packet
in fact, there would be a whole damn section dedicated
to all the pork sausages I’ve claimed were
“linda mccartney’s best work yet”
I could hide all the horrible things
I’ve thought and said and done
photos of the acne I try and fail to cover up
with cruelty-full make-up
paint even more shadows under my eyes
decorated with a nashville filter
a self-portrait with bitten fingernails and a permanent scowl
the problem with dorian gray is that oscar wilde
presumed that you could hide all your badness
in one painting
everything bad is hidden from sight
every scream
every blood-shot eye
every fist through a wall
(metaphoric, of course –
I rent for fuck’s sake)
‘for sale,’ my instagram profile would read
‘an ex-anorexic turned fat fuck
a 22-year-old blow-out, drop-out
with bad skin and dress sense and personality and life.
open to any and all offers just please dear god get this depressed, narcissistic cow away from me.
no returns’
please
dear god
let me be dorian gray
let me hide all the grey where it can’t be seen
I know that this isn’t the point of the novel
but ol’ oscar’s dead so he can’t exactly complain
and if, for any reason,
some bright fucking spark with an english degree
wants to correct me about ‘badness’ or ‘madness’
then I’ll meet you in the nearest asda car park
I don’t give a shit
how could I?
I’m not dorian gray
I’m living life as the portrait
I just know I’d give a hell of a lot to be perfect
sundance poetry 