She reminds me of wild grass.
They remind me of wild grass.
Bone against bone. Flesh of
my flesh a prize. From all of
this reeling emptiness. Whispers of
silence and loneliness in the
afternoon sunlight. Take me
away from the nationality of
this madness. I can see it when I look into their eyes.
What exactly they think of me.
There are so many levels of
madness in my family. An obsessive,
compulsive madness about
cleanliness. Disorder. Bipolar.
Substance abuse. I could say
my mother never loved me but all
my life she was my shelter.
My teacher. My driftwood,
my potential, the windows to
my soul. My Ingrid Jonker.
My Marilyn Monroe. Been a disgrace
all my life, my mother said to
my face. Still, the wild grass comes to me.
Like the magical and intelligent films of
Stanley Kubrick. Jane Campion.
My Ingrid Jonker. My Marilyn Monroe.
Red furious hearts beating away.
Red little beasts. Wounded beasts. But also, blue and hurt and ill and
feeling wounded. I want to be free
and pain-less. I want freedom.
Inside I feel an abundant hurt.
The pain of this everlasting. Still
I feel this emptiness inside of
me. Can’t put it into words. Don’t
think I’m trying hard enough.
I’m feeling blue and cynical.
My heart is worn out. Out of
loving people who do not want to
love me in return. My heart is
cold. Don’t tell the snow witch.
Can’t fight this. Not so tough after all.
Don’t have that instinct. This is
breaking my heart. Breaking the hurt
I’ve carried inside of me, my womb
for months. I want to tell people.
All I have ever wanted is to be loved.
ABIGAIL GEORGE is a South African blogger, poet, short story writer, and aspirant young adult novelist. She briefly studied film and television production at the Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. She has been published in various anthologies, numerous times in print in South Africa, and online in e-zines based in Australia, Finland, the UK, the United States, India and Ireland and across Africa from Istanbul, Turkey to Nigeria.