womanhood

a work in progress

Page 2 of 60

Power

Yesterday you spoke.

And spoke. 

And spoke. 

I wanted you to get it all out. 

Out of your system. 

The words, the pain, the hurt. 

Everything. 

Out. 

So that your insides were anew. 

But I couldn’t help but notice. 

Those strings of words. 

All too familiar. 

Because there was a time. 

When they came from my lips. 

He said I shouldn’t. 

They thought it was best I don’t. 

It’s not in my control. 

He bought the tickets so I had to go. 

I told him we shouldn’t, but he said we should. 

All those words. 

Tell me. 

You gave your power to him. 

Nestled it in his lap. 

And then asked me. 

What can I do? 

 

X

K

With child.

NOTE: I wrote this a good 7 months ago and I don’t feel the same way. I wasn’t going to post it, because it just felt bad to say that I ever felt that way. But I think part of this whole thing, is being ok with feels. And I realise, it’s totally ok. Xx K

//

So you are with child. 

And I love you darlingly so. 

My heart beats for you. 

You are my blood. 

My love. 

My mother. 

My sister. 

My friend. 

My world. 

And I know. 

That this sinking feeling inside me. 

I want to quash. 

This fear. 

You but not me. 

I’m not there yet. 

Not with child. 

Yet. 

I feel. 

The why. 

And I want to quash it. 

But instead. 

I let myself. 

Feel it. 

Feel the sorrow. 

The simple one of not getting what you want. 

The feeling of someone else getting what you want. 

I let it wash over me. 

And I know. 

It will be ok. 

X

K

Ok

There is confusion.

Where are you my sweet.

Disconnected.

Is where you are.

Far from me.

Unable to connect.

Unable to reach.

But I know you.

You know me from every under current running along the lines that transfer my breath, my intonations, my heartbeat from me to you.

You know my silence.

You know the anger in my message when I simply say, “ok”.

Sinking in Doubt

I’m sinking.
Deeper and deeper.
And I’m trying to stop myself.
Everyday.

With 5 deep breaths.
With a little tidy here and there.
With spinach as a side.

Holding myself up.
Just a little.

It’s a wave you’ve gotta ride through babe.
You know you’re gonna more than make it at the other end.
So why you stressing?

I know Kholo is going to leap, sing and dance.
Not just float.

So why do I seem to obsess.
Worry.
Anxiet myself.

Let. It. Go.
Surrender.

Xx
K

So Mad

I’m so mad at you.
At you all.
For not showing up.
When I thought you would.

You know what.
Life doesn’t boil down to a matter of life and death.
Relationships aren’t about that final moment, as if I’m hanging off the edge of the cliff.
And that is when you need to show up.

It’s made of everyday moments.
And those are the ones.
You needed to show up for.

That’s when you choose.
Me.
Us.
This.

Not when I’m hanging on the edge of a cliff.
Cause honies this ain’t no Road Runner episode.

X
K

 

(Also a post from last year, feeling all ok at the moment:))

Care

Who taught you not to care?
Who taught you not to get riled up?
Who taught you that you couldn’t make a difference?

My child.
My friend.
My lover.

YOU ARE THE DIFFERENCE.

In your tongue.
In your soul.
In your mind.
Your heart.

Lies the difference.

So feel it.
Get crushed.
Get hurt by it.

The racism. The oppression. The sexism. The casteism. The world.

Get fucked off.
And speak your heart.
Speak your words.

Because my darling sweetest.
It takes us.
Everyday people.

Bringing our courage and our hurt to the front.
To make change.

With a conversation.
With a protest.
With an instagram post.

With every little thing.
With every big thing.

We are making a difference.

The Garden is Overgrown

It’s funny in a way.
Normally, I would have planned it just so.
Someone to nurture.
Someone to water.
While I was away.

But I guess in someways, I couldn’t offer it.
Couldn’t care enough for it.

So now we’re back.
And it’s over run.
Run a muck.

Creepers twirling.
Passion fruit vines, crushing the curry leaves.
Tomato-less tomato trees sprawling over the concrete.
Dried, dried leaves.
Dead as they droop.

And I look at them and am reminded.
Of my lack of desire to nurture.

Where I was once so attentive, we had herbs and chillies, alive and tomatoes ripening in the sun.

I’m now barren in a way.
Nothing to give.
Nothing to slay.

The Ultrasound

I just want to check your left ovary.
She says to me.
Her stick pushes and darts and my discomfort stays alight.

Her screen says so much to her. Blood here. Vessels there.
To me it says.
Empty.

I knew it yesterday.
I’ve know it for days.

This is a far cry from the sex I know.
I’m not allowed to have it for 6 weeks.
But that stick is akin to a sarcastic joke made to burn.

She keeps going.
Left right, in, out. Centre. Back.
I understand.
She’s doing her job.
Getting all the information.

Getting it down to 15 slides.
That I have miscarried.

That there is no life in my womb.
Just a teaspoon of blood.

I know this.
And yet.
I’m here.

Wondering why I’m letting her do her job.
So thoroughly.
When I need.
Out.

The Miscarriage

You left me yesterday sweetheart.
Or maybe you left me before.
But today, I woke up, and you weren’t in me anymore.
I could feel it.

Unusually light.
The lightness.

It was a dark day.
I don’t even know.
How I feel about it all.

The thing is.
I didn’t know you.
We chatted, but rarely.
But my box was ticked.
Two kids.
Done.

How presumptuous.
And now I wonder.
Was it the future I’ve lost that I’m sad about?
Your Daddy was the first to think of your soul.
Of your journey.
Not his attached to yours.
Purely yours.
He’s always been the selfless type.

Me?
Tears in the night.
Blood neatly contained.
Bed to bathroom to toilet to bed.

No need for reasons.
It’s just as it was always meant to be.
Except we didn’t know.
What was meant to be.

X
K

//

PS – If you’re my friend and you want to message me – please kindly, don’t send me a whatsapp or an email or a DM. To be honest, I find this kind of a conversation can only really happen in person and I’m sure the next time we catch up, you can flood me with your hugs. Just not the emoticon version. With so much love. Xx

 

How sickly are they?

Those who cannot love.

Those who cannot be free of numbers and control.

How sickly are they?

Those who hold tight.

Strangling in their love.

How sickly are they?

How sickly are you?

Controlling it the way you do.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

It is never enough.

Perhaps one day.

When we are gone, no shadows in our trace.

Will it all finally be.

Sickeningly enough.

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