I feel cheated as a mother
I feel cheated as a mother.
Who knew
that as I grew large with unborn child
my future aspirations were shriveling deep inside?
Who could tell, when they touched the kicking form
that withered within, that it would be the cause of
So much misery ?
This ungrateful wretched child-
the offspring of so much pain-
birthed agonizingly
has led to a life of un fulfillment
and deep rooted contempt.
As she sucked my breast my
own nutrients- feelings of self worth and fulfillment-
were draining slowly.
Starved, I was, for gratification
for
something meaningful.
Something worthy.
I feel cheated as a mother.
Cheated out of life.
Who knew, bringing life into this world
comes with a price. The moment I gave her existence
mine vanished.
A life for a life.
my siren song
i’m hoping to
lure you out to the
middle of the sea,
i’m hoping to drag
you down with me -i just don’t
want to be lonely
Calcified on his fingers
My weakness my shame my lust
was calcified on his fingers
and on his lips.
He smiled. Because
my lust was drawn across my
face-and his
as well…quite literally.
He kissed away each
carnal impulse
and brought it throbbing back
until I dripped with secreted
lust
again.
Rugby
Rugby must be for guys.
I am vaguely aware of this
notion as I stand among the throng of sweaty
teenage boys
and sweat my vagina off.
One boy-the one with glasses- asks for a break.
“Why?” his blonde friend laughs teasingly.
“Do you need to change your tampon?”
Rugby must be for guys. I know this as
no one tackles me. Choosing
instead to
barely tap my side with their sweaty hands
or brush my shoulder with theirs.
I wouldn’t break.
I grunt and wipe my sweaty brow
with grassy hand. I am tired-but no more than the rest.
The coach slaps my ass. I look around quizzically.
Is this an initiation ritual? Why has no one else gotten it
as well.
I bite my lower lip. And sweat.
I am brushed by a guy-it counts as a tackle.
I’m down in the grass. “Watch her head!”
They say. I sigh. And sweat.
Rugby is for guys-they tell me this.
They do-but I’m huffing along with them
being beaten down by the sun just the same-
putting one hundred percent into it-
unless my effort doesn’t count the same?…
He wants only to forget
He stopped writing a few months ago.
He closed his laptop and
Simply never typed out another line.
He said-that writing opens too many wounds.
The purple welts seeped red when he wrote.
He said that it -writing-
allowed a flow of memories to overtake him-
it demanded a release of emotion
and an influx of once-forgotten remembrances.
So he has sworn
to never write again.
Lest he feel something.
He wants
Only to forget
And feel naught.
Men
I find men immensely interesting. I would like to bottle them up in a jar and simply keep them in my room so I can study them always. I think, it must be exciting to be a man. To laugh loudly without reproof and high five and check out women. And men have it so easy-well, with all of a woman’s goods so easily visible and accessible. Breasts and ass and the curve of her hips-all right there for a man to see. Or touch. So easy.
Yes, men are immensely fascinating. All the different types-I imagine them as flavors. Some so spicy and overpowering they burn my tongue. Like the men who blow their car horns at me as I drive, and pull beside me. Until they see that I can’t be bothered right now-I’ve got to focus on making this next turn or I might crash my car.
And then, there are all the sweet flavors. Like the boy in my class who is so calm and collected-yet holds the faintest hint of seductive swagger that I want to take his mouth to mine and devour (taste) him slowly. I feel safe with him-yes, sweet is good. There are the men who are simply jaded hazy figures. The ones you can’t quite figure out. No matter that you’ve caught their squirming forms and put them in a beaker. No matter how much you’ve inspected them under the blaring light of your microscope or tried to prod them with needle and scrapple they refuse to be discovered-their secrets are untold.
Men are immensely lucky to be men. How must it feel to be so powerful? To hold a woman in his arms-to have the power to press her against a wall or hold her down on a bed. To have the strength and will power-to have the kindness- not to do so if she doesn’t want it-to love her softly. To have the power to impregnate. To overpower. To hold down. To rape. Or to love gently. I am almost jealous of this power.
And yet, as a woman-I suppose I possess certain charms of my own as well.
To be continued…
Draft one: I find men immensely interesting.
I find men immensely interesting.
I would like to bottle them up in a jar and simply
keep them in my room so I can study them always,
I think it must be exciting to be a man. To laugh loudly
without reproof and high five and check out women. And men have it so easy-
well, with all of a girls goods so easily visible and accessible. Breasts and ass
and the curve of her hips-all right there for a man to see or touch. So easy.
Yes, men are immensely fascinating. All the different types-I imagine them as
flavors. Some so spicy and overpowering they burn one’s tongue. Like the men
who blow their car horns at me as I drive and pull beside me. Until they see that I can’t
be bothered right now-I’ve got to focus on making this next turn or I might crash my car.
And then, there are all the sweet flavors. Like the boy in my class who is so calm and collected-
Yet holds the faintest tinge of seductive swagger that I want to take his mouth to mine and devour (taste) him slowly. I feel safe with him-yes, sweet is good.
Men are immensely lucky to be men. How must it feel to be so powerful?
To hold a woman in his arms-to have the power to press her against a wall or hold her down on a bed.
To have the strength and will power-to have the kindness- not to do so if she doesn’t want it-to love her softly.
To have the power to impregnate. To overpower. To hold down. To rape. Or to love gently.
I’m almost jealous of this power.
And yet, as a woman-I suppose I possess certain charms of my own as well.
To be continued….
