a poem by Paula Puddephatt, UK

You would love to put me on trial.
my mind is full of words,
and in-yer-face neon signs,
and pale moonlight,
illuminating my
private night sky.

Numbers - digits -
they leave my imagination numb -
which probably explains
my grade F in Maths,
blending as much as contrasting
with straight As in English -
Language and Literature, both.

I am not the number
scrawled upon the file
that you pretend not to keep on me.

Stop ringing. Facebook me - or Tweet me, if you must.
My soul is telephone phobic,
and ex-directory,
and I have taken the receiver off the hook already.

I really don't want to bin
this pile of Falmer jeans.
Yes, they represent a previous decade's styles.
And no, they probably wouldn't
fit me, anyway.

Talk to me
and not the number
on my file.

Even if the dial on your scales
won't stop in time,
I might still be worthwhile.

I visited The Wizard of OZ,
and he told me
that Victoria B. is really
no thinner than me.
She simply owns clothes
in smaller sizes,
into which she can fit with ease.
That's why they invented
stores such as Marks and Spencer,
and "vanity sizing"
to fit your wildest dreams.

It's not about make-up.
It's not about glamour.
It's not about attendance at church.
And it's definitely not about
the results of my Maths GCSE.

Don't attempt to quantify me.

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