Poem 20

I was given a new name, the first few days
I didn’t know how to call you, you were mine
That’s what mattered, then the fears arrived
If ever, I allowed myself to sleep for a while
I was listening carefully to hear each of your
Breaths, they were my fuel and rest
They still are but not anxiously, I listen
The precautions I take are not ridiculous
It’s as if I knew all along and followed a guide
But somehow, I don’t want to share
To write, it comes as images and embedded
Knowledge of you, how to deal, when to stay
Calm, when to go mad over nothing at all
To breathe, to breathe, to love you more
Than I can be angry or hurt, mostly angry
When I feel you can get hurt, to look at you
And to see you entirely, which I really need
When my limited vision is showing me fractions
I have to keep them close to my understanding
                           Of you

Helpless 

I’m helpless, my hands are like spaghetti
The one who pushed me on the ground
Is free to do whatever he wishes with me

The nice evening I had, now turned
Into a nightmare, I need to talk to someone
But what I find at home is… silent treatment

The next day I wake up, all swollen, beaten
I go to see a doctor and there I find
A tender touch, the compassion I was seeking

How so, the strangers always gave me
The things I couldn’t find at home
All that, I never had to give back

*It’s been about 10 years but I still can’t forget and I probably never will…

Poem 19

I ended it

But why does it feel

Like it was over long ago

Almost before it started 

The minute I first saw you 

I knew we would be

Nothing more than this 

Empty room I am in now

The colour of the water in my glass

The smell that I thought I recognized 

In a crowded place one day 

But I didn’t dare to turn around 

I ended it today

But you ended it when I first spoke 

When one night became every day 

You have met me, we talked for a while

Later on you realized, that you had no impression 

Different than that it wasn’t me who said all that crap

You talked to my current obsessions, the ones I let out

My dictator wasn’t allowed, but you’ve met

How narrow, you thought 

She drank the beer someone else has bought 

She was surrounded by too many to fight 

Listened to the advice her teacher once taught her- enjoy it

Sometimes you just need to survive 

Yes, I’m obsessed, but what’s wrong with you tonight? 

My crazy thoughts were there even during the fight, when two bodies met

No, that’s not what happened, her knuckles met

His chin, his nuts, his eyes, his nose, bloody nose

And then he ran carrying his own blood away

Her place was filled by someone else’s another day

So many days and nights since then

But still, he whispers to the blood in her veins

It could’ve been you, it could’ve been all of us

What was bothering me before I wrote about it and felt better 

As much as I’d like to write a poem or many, many poems, the things which are bothering me come as an inner monologue and refuse to be converted into poems, no matter how hard I try. Now I think that a few of the poems that I wrote and I actually like were kind of a misunderstanding, were handed to me by mistake (that’s also a theory of one of my exes). Hahaha (laughing because the thought of him makes me laugh… Heeeheeheehhhh) 

What is bothering me?!

So, I’m a single mother, a really, really single mother! For someone like me, that was the best outcome. Because I know what I want to do and how, with a child, not always easy but I hope my love will fill the gaps where it’s possible. I also have OCD. 

Every day, almost no exception, people I don’t know and probably don’t want to know talk to me and ask me questions about my son, they smile at him and try to touch him in an innocent way. But I see it differently. I see the message my child gets… I’ll talk about that another time.

It looks like he’s drawn to old men, he knows what he doesn’t have without me explaining (my son’s biological father is pretty old, 54 now I guess, but I can’t be bothered to check or to remember), which was a big issue for me last year when my son was still a little baby. I was desperate to manufacture a story, one you can serve to a child, to the rest of the curious people, too. The real story I’ve told to my best friends, to my therapist, to my last ex. 

The story is utterly ugly and ridiculous. I don’t want to lie to anyone but I also want to spare myself from going through these memories.

But I never tell the sweet old women at the tram that I’m a single mom. There wasn’t an occasion to tell anyone face to face for a long time, probably almost a year. The last time, I remember, the pain I felt was strong enough  to make me never want to say these words again. 

And then, I decided to try again recently. It was still the same, I felt terrible for a few hours after that. 

What’s the problem??? 

I don’t feel love for the father of my child (or any of my exes, to be fair). I don’t regret losing him. I would be ashamed if I was still with him. I’m not ashamed of the fact that I’m a single mother. It’s very tiring but I find it much easier than what I expected when I was pregnant. Actually I was too tired to think or hope then, too. 

IT IS EASIER than the looks that I get when I say who I am now, that’s it. Yay! That’s the good news.

I met and talked to another older man a few months ago, he looked so much like the father of my child, he comes from more or less the same region in Europe, and I’m from a less popular part of the continent. What struck me was what he said when I told him that I have no intentions to sue my ex for a child support or whatever (because he would destroy us in every way possible if I give him the opportunity and I won’t). So, the older guy I met said “But of course, leave the guy alone!”. No related to logic reasons, though. He believes a woman shouldn’t go after the man who impregnated her if he doesn’t want to take any part in a freaking family life, or at least knowing his child: “Be free you guy, run wild!”…. Is this a thing guys in their fifties normally think and say??? 

I guess this is one of the many reasons why he’s alone and desperate about it. If he was OK with it (being single, with his solitude) I could find it charming, now not.

That was a long, probably meaningless for the rest of the world post and there will be no song recommendation on top of all, no nudes, no nothing… Hahahahahahha (I don’t think of my ex every time I laugh but when I do I laugh harder-haaaahaaaaahaaaaahaaaaa…)…

In the yard 

That’s it, my babe looks like a Russian 

His nose and lips and eyes

My babe feels like a hurricane 

Most of the time

I chase the tiles of his corridors, that makes me smile

And tired like hell, no wonder my body isn’t in its best shape 

Our vacation was more like a hospital stay

I had no makeup the day when I was the last woman

That old man in the yard met

If I could find a way to hang there longer

I would seduce at least three doctors 

I keep thinking about that old man

And what a pity he met me 

Because I didn’t pay any attention 

To his words, his eyes, I wish I had

Made him smile, instead of running away

My babe was happy that day, just like every day

Creep

Can I be blamed that I’m not

Perverted enough for your taste

Or that I don’t want to ever

Do it the way you did it to me then? 

At a very young age I learnt

Solitude, it’s what is left at the end

I’ve been preparing myself to be resilient 

And, the way you like it, I don’t like it 

You know, it’s just a trend 

A man in front of me spat on the ground 

I felt its taste in my mouth 

Another man, sitting in the back row

Was jerking off, I felt my hair sticky

The culmination came so quickly 

I knew it, I had to wear a hat

In the theater; a girl was carving 

A living tree in the woods

My tattoos started to hurt

I ask for a slap across the face 

And get not just one, but twelve 

Then it’s being explained to me

That I liked it because I didn’t stop it

I try setting boundaries, I get a slap on the wrist 

Who tells a woman that she has no rights? 

Some men don’t understand 

My differences make me fight another fight 

It takes a short quest among the other

Victims, and he begins to grasp what’s really 

Going on here and just for a while

He’s shocked and afraid for his daughter 

But not of the villains he’s scared, no

He’s afraid of the victim 

Of her attitude towards the perpetrator, you see

And that she might kill him in his sleep 

I have seen fakeness before but you seem

Another level of stupid, you creep