I found out today that a life-long family friend and the only father I’ve really ever known has been leading my mother on for ten years about how they’ll be together one day, only to leave his unhappy marriage…for a different woman. My real father died earlier this year – suicide after 7 years of only hearing from him when he needed drug money.
And a friend I decided to trust turned to drugs and another fell in love and said, “you’ve done nothing wrong, I guess I’m just a bad friend.” So the internet actually feels like a safer place to share than my life right now. And that’s another thing about being an adult isn’t it? You learn not to share pain because the only thing that happens is you look incompetent at life, the damsel in distress, especially as a 21 year old girl.
I miss that invincible feeling I had when I was in love with an artist and we searched this city like a playground, looking for perfect moments to collect. Now it’s Dog and I, day job and 3am art to make the time pass and reminding myself not to expect anything of anyone so I won’t be disappointed.
Today I am looking only for the the flora
See, someone broke my heart and this land makes me want to write
in a way that people do not, anymore.
I am at home in the lemonwoods
where bruises are worn like technicolour praises
on bare midriff.
Daphne and Cherry Laurel sit in amongst our native chargreen
like good little girls, like poisonous little girls
with snake eyes.
On the tuff cliffs, sweet bell bush and the African honeysuckle smell
like the old bray, bray, the bray of my heart.
I give myself away to pretty places now.
Old Man’s Beard cover the trees like a frost, I tear it off.
See, someone broke my mother’s heart
Near the foot of Lovers Walk, a burlesque of bougainvillea
posed deliciously, a spread-eagled lollipop
daring someone to take her from the things she loves,
the paper flower with thick black thorns.
I need not leave my own driveway to see her.
See, Mum and I ornament the house
with her beautiful bougainvillea thistles,
like warning signs now.
Sometimes, the lovers want to come back in
but we leave them like bones in the garden.