Moonlight bent down gentle,
Kiss kiss on our foreheads,
As we wandered in the dark.
Trees on either side of us
The sea close enough
to hear its whispering
Of our nighttime escapades.

Grass up to the knees
Knelt before our feet.
A shack made up like a tee-***,
One covered in mismatched old dolls,
A poorly maintained vegetable patch
Then yours,
Temporarily,
An immobile House truck.

The door creaked open
Dust lay thick upon the air
Along with aging excitement
Of all who had ever stayed there
Before you.

It’s not much
You told me
It’s wonderful
I told you.
The body of the truck was shelves and seats,
Filled with the trinkets of foregoers,
Books and drawings,
Fairy lights,
A small bell
You moved through them all
To the front of the truck,
And climbing on a well positioned table
Pulled yourself up
To where you slept,
Above the driver’s caddy,
Below a wide skylight.

We got high
And drew designs
To tattoo on each other
In the morning.
You offered me your beer.
I accepted,
and fell asleep in your arms.

I lifted you as high as I could.
The next day my left arm ached,
And I half-smiled recalling why,
Proof I had done my job.

It came as no real surprise,
To be accused of doing nothing.
The only woman pallbearer,
Of course my body should be brought into play.

The aching of my arm
Was proof
That I didn’t let you down.
Until, of course,
That was the task at hand.

Leave me high
Leave me gasping for breath
In your absence
Leave me pacing the room
And falling to the floor.
Leave me in solitude
That I know so deeply
As to call it my friend
Leave me standing
Or sitting
In the dark
Or filtering sun through my lashes.
Leave me to feel
My own heart
Beating through
A thin shift shirt.
Leave me in my mind

Tear me and chew me,
Spit me out,
Or swallow me whole.
We've a whole life yet to continue to destroy.
Today is our new variation
On yesterday,
And if we have our way,
It will be exactly the same.

We wait for excitement
which never seems to find us.
We lay beneath the sun
and hope for change.

But we're not hoping so hard anymore,

No longer pulling daisies,
throwing petals to the ground,
With a yes or a no;
Just waiting around,
to be pushing them instead.

**** is not a bad word.
****** is no longer a burden.
Refuse to be ashamed of your anatomy.
We are beautiful and powerful womym.
The source of our power,
Is our *****.
That which we've been told to hide,
To protect,
Never to speak of.
That which we grow from,
And develop.
Where we bear children,
And shed our wombs by the moon.
That which we are made to fear;
To worry about;
To shave or not?
Does it smell?
Is it weird?
Does it look right?
From our beginning,
Our ***** are mysterious.
It is we who must reclaim them.
Gain control over them,
Learn to love,
Rather than shy away from.
****
****
Our ***** will be our saviours.

No man is an island,
He said.
I am womyn.
I am so alone.
I am isolated.
And even if you reach out,
Stoke my cheek,
Brush my hair,
Please know;
you have never really touched me.

Am I supposed to know what i want?
It's never been that way.
Not for one moment that I can recall.
And that's a lie.
Every moment with you
(at first)
Felt right.
Full and perfected.
Complete.
But it's the staying that way that is hard.
Everything with me is impermanent.
Even my desire.
Even my soul.
Even everything I once wanted.

I wonder if you'd believe me,
If i told you that i missed you
(again).