Tag Archives: women

113. you would have done it

breaking up is never easy i know, but i have to go – the abba song plays on a loop in my head, ringing in my ears.
is it time to call it quits?
count the losses and move on?
i don’t know. we’re just about to move in together. i know, wow! two weeks til we finally land in each other’s pocket. and i’ve been waiting for this. and you don’t care. you can’t even be bothered to buy the plates when i’ve bought all the cutlery, the knives, the pots and pans.
i think back on us and wonder if you ever cared. was there something always niggling in the back there?

three years five months. a long time.
how many girls could you have fucked in that time begs the question. how many more women like the french madame would have offered to suck you off if you’d been single? mind you, it clearly didn’t stop her. approaching you in your lunch break day after day, a preying mantis, with luscious lips and killer eyes (imagination, my darling, is no friend of mine). she’d have seduced you in no time. you said yourself you would have done it, had i not been in the way waiting for you back in london, withering away like a flower in the desert.

for what are all the men in the world if i can’t have you?
a common misconception of women in love.
i wonder if the air is clearer now, when i don’t love you in the same way i did. the heart stops still. it waits for you, as we continue to flitter the best years of our lives on each other.

108. flesh and blood

intrinsically, we are all the same: flesh and blood, bones and dust. and when we are born, the world flutters under the weight of us. we are the oxygen of life.

as a woman, it is hard not to feel the nautical beat of potential life swimming somewhere deep down inside, the taut knot tied tight. and only the tide of red flushing the possibility out is a concession of peace, a book falling shut with a gust of wind, oyster shell clamming up. we learn to breathe only for ourselves again.
we are liberated, we are free. from responsibility, from fear, from life, yet unborn, screaming to break out with a pair of lungs not yet formed.

and yet, on the other side of a coin, we are told that once formed, the foreign clump has rights? jeremy hunt and patriarchy. it’s men’s world, just as it ever was. we strive for humanity but religion clouds the eyes. are statistics not enough? what’s humane about bringing an unwanted child into the grim ouskirts of this world?

i grew up in ukraine. the newly independent, drained ukraine of the nineties, worse even than it is today. i was a hotly unticipated child, the following story is not about me. the story is about a friend of my mum’s who said something i will never forget. at christmas, i take my kids to visit an orphanage to see how lucky they are to growing up in a family.
there’s in excess of 100,000 orphans in ukraine even now. 90% of them still have living parents, parents who don’t want to or can’t look after them. at 16, when they leave orphanages, they, more often than not, take to the streets to live the life of crime.

now, i’m not saying abortion is right but if ever i was in a bad position, i’d want to have that second chance, the opportunity to do what’s right and not throw a part of me away onto the scrapheap of life. pro-choice was never just about women, it’s also about the suffering of children born only to be abandoned.

then again, what would you know about that, mr. jeremy hunt,  educated at oxford, born to a sir?

77. sometimes i just need to know that you won’t die

the week is nearly over. again.
and it feels like rain on skin in the heat of summer, raising goosebumps in spite of its warmth.

i never want anything to end.
not even nightmares.
i drag them out carefully, tossing and turning, roasting, like a pig, in my own cold sweat.
i had one every night this week. sometimes two. and i remember. i don’t keep tabs on my subconsiousness because it scares me. the brutality of the mind always scares me. and i dream of death. of death and failure.
y flores. flores para los muertos.

right now, my world is a house made of paper: cards with pretty scribbles on them, where blanche‘s words i lived in a house where dying old women remembered their dead men have more than substance; they have depth to go on and on, revolving in my head.

i’ve seen them from every angle. i swear.

what is it with death?
i’ve always said i have to die before the one i love. i couldn’t stand life otherwise. and i’ve made you promise you won’t die before me. i’ve made you promise me the unthinkable, the unpredictable, the unpromisable.

i did it just because sometimes i just need to know that you won’t die.

white roses

talk me of happiness,
of women i have been,
of anything that makes your heart pound
a hundred miles an hour /
and breathe me a life
i’ve given you for free
so i inhale the oxygen i’ve stolen from myself  /
to fire my synapses
in this elusive chain reaction /

i’m lost
and i have been lost
all my life /
in me,
in all the things you see,
in the frozen whiteness all around me /

so slash my neck
and paint me black /
so hold me tight
and bring me white /

roses.

49. and to think i used to call him mine

if he ever tried to retrace his steps, Y would still be here. there’s only so many lives a man can lead. whilst i lived out my three, not quite a cat but near enough the slinky nine, he could barely grasp onto one.

so here we are again. and he won’t admit that he was wrong to have jilted me at my elusive altar and though i’m not bitter, i still think it should have been me to have waved the first goodbye. i was never the taker for seconds.
now we speak for barely more than seconds.

and we had a conversation today. somehow i manipulated minutes out of him when he claimed to have none. and he wants me to call on a weekend. and he listened to my poetry of loving women and war poets. it’s been a while. but i’ll let him live his life. that one life he holds onto like a raft in a burly sea.
those sort of lives were never meant for me: i like mine long and luscious, like sweltering summer days.

and when i read him my lines, he stopped talking altogether, pondering, wondering, what it was that i meant, knowing it concerned him but not knowing how.

and to think i used to call him mine.