I never used to cry
Not even when Robert Woodcock asked me to be his girlfriend seven hours before dumping me at the school disco Not even when I learnt that grown men do evil things to innocent little girls Not even when my best friend chose death over her depression Not even when he created scars on my arms with his fiery cigarette stub, that shall remain a blight on my creamy skin forevermore Not even when, time after time, I was reminded that I would never be someone's first choice Not even when she, he, they died. But now. Now I cry all the time. At everything. The sadness of opening the fridge and realising that there are no pickles left. The video of the dog doing that thing, or the man rescuing the cute bundle of fluff. The deep depression of discovering baby ducklings surrounding their dead mother. The sorrow of finding out that the little old lady down the street, who I never once spoke to, passed away. Rain. Sunshine. Cooking for one. The guilt of eating all the profiteroles. The acute inability to make the perfect cheesecake. Finding a hole in my stripy tights. Watching them flirt, hold hands, whisper sweet nothings in one another's ear. When the box-set ends but they didn't make another series. Sit ups and squats and lunges and running. Getting home from the supermarket and realising that I didn’t purchase pickles. Menopausal, they said. Fuck right off, said I. And then I cried.
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AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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