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No such thing as a real woman!

She's a girl. About six or seven. Playing outside with the boys. Other girls mums tell them not to hang out with her, because her mother is not like them, and she's not like them either. She goes home crying. She plays by herself.

In her early twenties. She knows her way. She possesses a confidence that makes you uncomfortable. A sense of self. God forbid!

She's one of those women. The 'strong' ones. The ones who do not even need to go against the label. A grey suit woman wearing a flowy dress and bright red lipstick. Women who do not fit in.

She's the woman, other women in real grey suits dismissed as too girly, too cute, less smart. She's the woman, other women in flowy dresses dismissed as too manly, too independent, too smart.

She's the woman whose glass ceiling in life is other women. She thinks, she should have been born a boy.

She's lonely.

In her mid twenties. She is yet to learn her limits. She is most likely to be single. Her best friends are the guys she works with. Her only girl friends, are their girlfriends. She travels around the world, because she can. Nothing can ever tie her down. Nowhere.

In her late twenties. She has built herself into a man's world. And life has opened up in front of her like a smooth motorway...

She's a woman. Mid thirties. A mother. Her child knows that the only limits a person has, are their own.


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In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…

The Last Return

The colour of honey in his eyes now comes with a bitter tinge of sadness.
How could the universe allow his heart to bear the pains of this world when the pink blush on his cheekbones tells me he still possesses the pure and delicate love the rest of us left behind in our distant childhoods, or maybe never had.
I want his sadness to leave his face and come into mine. If that means his love can stay in the light that sheds from his honey coloured eye.
The red muscle pumping blood in my chest, the colour of a puzzle of missing pieces. He, everyday further from my reach, and another missing piece falls into place.
How strange it is, to create, a whole puzzle that is not there. How strange it is that because of his missing, there isn't even a there anymore.

He sits silently, looking at his feet. I swing as if the sadness falling upon us is not a big elephant in the park. But we know it is. Because his eyes become darkened when he says: "Really, I'm fine"…


You see me. In front of you I shed my perfectly sensitive skin scale by scale and lay skinless. My bones crumble away like chunks of shortbread and I resemble something of a puddle with a heart shaped brain pulsing against your skin.
You're a constant, a body of concrete, a dish with a hole the shape of me.
I want to evaporate into your chest.