Personal Problems: 9th Account

(N.B. I have never been so honest to myself, to you, Reader, to humanity. I hope I never meet you. I hope your eyes never cut my face).

Some time back I said I fuck with words.
I still do.
I am their prostitute.
I am their dirty little whore.

My father holds me against the world,
If I could still keep his protection I would,
But I put 20 oceans between us for the sake of education.
Welcome to University.

Father, tell me something so innately personal
That it takes you back to you standing on the edge of your own father’s grave.

I know these cuts on your skin,
Father, Foreigner, Friend.

You never tell me your deepest secrets so easily,
I peel you back, layer by layer, once every 3 or 4 years.
So this time it will take you some time to think.
I’ll give you some of my own to soothe the pain you’re feeling.

I am your dirty half-breed daughter,
They called me that at school.
And I know it breaks you into two,
That you couldn’t whip humanity’s tongue back into the sewers of its throat.

I don’t blame you,
I don’t blame the blood running through my veins,
I’m happy to be this different,
I’m happy to stare in everybody’s eyes and be weird.

Your family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half Mother.
Mother’s family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half you.

Either way, both sides of the same coin are not in my life at all.
How long has it been since I stared into the eyes of my superior cousins?
So long.
So I live by the words,

And I’m sorry to say Father,
I’ve sold myself short to words.
I’m the Sasha Grey of language.
I don’t use protection, either.

How many times I’ve been knocked up,
I’ve lost count,
But I know that this coping mechanism hurts me so much sometimes
That I might as well abort myself.

If I weren’t in your life
Maybe I wouldn’t have licked the paddles of the racism,
I have swam in seas of other peoples’ spit,
So I go home and fuck another word or two.

Father, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for not being a mathematician.
I know you don’t say too many words in your life.
I know you will never like this work.

But I love you.
I love selling myself for free.
I’m fairly good at it; just like sex,
You get better at it the more you do it.

Every poem of mine is another ex that you never knew about
And every word is another sore you never saw
But you don’t have to heal it
Or bind it with “daddy strength”

If you need to know,
Scroll the pages.
Go through my texts and call up my ex-words,
My one night stands with syllables,

Because I haven’t seen them in months.
I miss them.
I miss Mother.
I miss you.

Maybe the fact we’re so hated by so many people who don’t know us
It turned us into selling ourselves short.
You still respect yourself.
Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.

I chuck the coins from the spaces between my legs
And hopefully someone will eat them,
I’m not doing this for the money,
I just want somebody to listen, even if its not you.

So there you go Father.
I’ve said my piece.
You’re not somebody to shirk out on a deal,
You’re a man of your word.

Its your turn now.

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On Reflection, Love

You weren’t funny,
I had never smoked a cigarette,
But the way we hung out together,
It looked like we chained it. Regular destructive couple. Kurt and Courtney.
But wasted as human beings, with no talent.

I spoke French better,
I sounded hotter to my English friends back home
And even my French teacher was jealous of my accent
Because I happened to do better than her at A Level French.
But I never happened to do better than you at the time.

I had wit,
I had dreams bagged in my suitcase every time I stepped on a plane to see you,
And I reckon for every prayer I made wishing we’d tie the knot,
Another lovesick girl somewhere in the world plunged a knife into her gut,
Another lovesick boy somewhere in the world held a gun to his head and it leaned on him like a friend.

I leaned on you like a friend. Your shoulder, or God’s step I used to say,
Somewhere in the depths of sky I died throwing my heart on you,
You cried afterwards when I heard of your first affair,
Begged for my fingers and my hands and my eyes to run through your hair, your body, your face.
Tonight I stand alone,

And you know I could always shrug it off, the second or the third time,
Took the piss out of it and it was okay
Its a pity I started to write poetry because of you,
But everybody mends a broken heart differently,
Somehow you were dragging the foetus out of me,

Something that I wanted to keep,
It wasn’t just any foetus,
It was twins, it was us.
With the rest of our bodies to come, to expand,
We hadn’t grown into the wedding clothes we’d stitched for ourselves

But you had a sick sense of humour,
And you threaded the knife through my womb and we were gone.
I’ve never known how much I wasted on you
But the years I spent every cell in my body believing in our life together
It all fell away, and I suppose it did not matter to you,

It never did.

Pregnant, Half 3

It is 3:30am
And I am pregnant.
This word carries two syllables,
Two people,
Cupped into each other.
It is 3:31am
And I am young.
That is the burning book between my pupils,
My Bible tossed,
My Qur’an, wasted.
Landscape trashed.
I have been on the absinthe,
And the green tea.
Neither affords me newness,
Look at the limbs growing inside of me.
I haven’t been weeded monthly,
I am pregnant with kisses
And accidents and a tossed condom,
With a forgotten hole leaking it’s way through into my body,
The latex that burst and the womb that burst,
It is 3:34am
And the pregnancy stick waved a wand over my head
And for a while I had two brains,
Two hearts,
4 legs and 4 arms,
Extra organs for extra work,
More air to be inhaled
And more to be known.

I took myself to the garden centre
And threaded a needle through my belly button,
And I unpicked the stitches lining my supple bloodiness.
It is 3:37am
And I have tossed the weeds in the bin,
And the extra brain and extra heart never grew a shoot in spring.