Rose L Dec 2017

We are so few and far between.
And for a few years every woman has been
Boring and bored, tired with no drive.
I am doing well. But within a circle of empowered women, we thrive.
Me, no exception. And I'd hate to lose my fragile perception
that you and I can change the world.
Others called it loneliness, we called it hard work -
Without your affirmation and kindred conversation
I'm finding it hard to call it anything other than a 'personal quirk'.
Lately, even, I find myself hiding. An action we used to find worthy of deriding -
A mark of lesser minds.
I still desire to change the world, and I miss that spark, that look in your eye
That told me to defy sexist expectations.
Now I'm in a sea of people and I struggle to find a grip, an ally.
But my heart still thuds like it did then.
The knowledge that women like you are out there
and that we will always be friends,
Gives me confidence
that together we can.

Rose L Nov 2017

This evening, the sun has set in raspberry blush and apricot.
Beckoning down with it those trees that shift through emerald tones the shadowed grass has forgot.
She lies draped, feasting, curved - carved not in marble but with
the ochre the trees leak when the sun is high
Deep and rich. Hands dig into figs and pull the insides out, sucking the ambrosia dry
Leaving fingertips dripping in rose-hip gold oil
myrrh that lights up that dusky soil
So when you touch the ground here, the mud is soft like the moonlight over her
And the juniper berries oft get stuck between your teeth
and make the air taste sweet.
Reflections in water mark no shimmering Daphne. She is flesh and blood
That desires not only to eat, drink and dance
But to feel full in her heart, to cry when needed
Flawed as a child is. She pulls her hair back from her face too regularly
and spits out cherry stones like a boy unimpeded.
And above her head soft stars form in Ariadne's guise
A vision of rich apples and pears, dark by midnight skies.

Rose L Jun 2017

God! Bring me down a trail of violets -
Bright violets for my love who drinks too much.
For we felt no fault in evenings spent dancing to old songs,
writhing, primordial dancers, our shadows burnt onto the rocks behind by fire
the air gliding around us like water in a stream.
We are heavy things. Our bones are filled with blood
and when we grasp eachother we rip the stems apart
And oily petals seep from underthings.
Dionysus!
Red, thick hot oily petals
Rose petals, broken from the bud
That weep for us, and die for us, as we lie
Clasped together like thorns
Elpenor!
Too late to continue our travels together
I will come back and bury you, I promise.

Rose L Jun 2017

The sex of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the pot you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.

this is actually one of my favourite poems i've written. I tried to use old fashioned imagery - the idea of a rose - to put across a feminist statement about my own sexuality, and how people seek to control it. The poem intends to encourage my, and other womens, own autonomy in sex. The imagery of the child crushing the rose hip is an observation of mens brutish, childish, careless sexuality in the way they treat female bodies.
Rose L May 2017

Evening's over, feel alone.
Cold seeping in, through my bones.
Sunday morning, 10 o'clock, waking up
Heart racing, head hurting, throwing up.
Feeling empty, Monday morning,
how'd it go?
Posting pictures, looking awful, just for show
Still can't help myself, telling everyone -
I love nights like these, honestly, so much fun
Can't wait for the next one.

Rose L Mar 2017

Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.

I tried to create a parallel in this between illness and sex. I hope it shows!
Rose L Feb 2017

I feel much heavier these days
I sleep a lot, and I paint with browns
Light ochre and soft greys
You tell me that's what you've noticed, anyway.
I forget to do my nails, and leave my hair up
Let it grow out and longer than it suits me.
Sometimes you tell me things have changed and tightly hold my hands -
I laugh and pretend I don't understand.
I used to read a lot, read to you -
Anything I found, poetry and song lyrics
And books I'd bought, or old ones that i'd suddenly see anew
when I'm seeing you,
over the top of the pages
Sitting opposite me crossed legged
Mimicking my voice
Laughing till we're both lightheaded.
Years ago you used to replace the flowers in my bedroom every morning
I told you to stop and that lilies were getting boring.
Today I got up extra early and painted my nails fuschia-pink
And cut big handfuls of daisies for the vase above the kitchen sink
When you came down from bed I looked at you over the pages of my book and said
"Remember this?

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