Close your eyes.
Your prying lies
Will surely lead to my demise,
For I was born
To be more
Than just a simple wife.
I'm not a trophy by any means,
But I see marriage in your eyes --
Two rings staring right at who you think I am,
The one you want, but I never can
Be the girl that you desire.
You've been confusing my cold shoulder
For an igniting fire.
I'm not trying to call you a liar,
If anything, I'm the one concealing the truth.
I will never be just a wife,
I will lead my own fantastic life.
I'll never wear an apron, curls, or pearls.
I will never be your one and only girl.
I will live for myself and my daughters,
For all those women to come
All they can ever be is a housewife
Clad in pink.
Honey, there's so much more to this
Than a life in which you depend on a man
For your happiness.
Be your own other half,
Fall in love with your own smile.
I used to write
looking in the mirror, peering
out from behind the bars of these walls.
I used to see them
in the kitchen,
by the stove, seated:
docile at the table. Their chairs
were always a little
or maybe they just weren't there.
They'd wash--no scrub--
their hands among the dishes
until their manicures bled.
Then they'd stack the porcelain
in a heap out by last night's
rubbish and tomorrow's
Sometimes they'd smile
to themselves; a chuckle of menial
labor. But other times they'd cry
and groan and moan out the next
generation of household
women. I used to see
them everywhere. I wonder where
She noticed the basking shark was wounded,
weeping vaginal blood.
The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed.
Whipped by exploratory waves, she blushed.
The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.
She had been there since morning
searching for love,
and found it
from a six-pack merman offering solace
as he rode on the silvery
back of a ray.
As he approached, the sun at his back,
she moaned and threw out her arms
like a supplicant.
Complete at last, the sand grasping at
her shoeless feet, she sank
towards the earth’s distant core
using her arms as uncertain ballast.
She awoke with a shiver
brushed away the sand
and headed back home.
The shark had turned belly-up,
scavenged by seagulls.
Another day-dream enjoyed in the
empty hours between lunch and dinner
between her third cup of tea
and fourth cigarette,
her children snoozing in
the back bedroom. Half-slumbering
in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls
where an unencumbered sun
set on a postcard shoreline.
Planning the rows of petunias to be
planted by the hedge,
making shopping lists,
writing novels, never to be published,
staring out of her windows at the sea
she waited for her husband’s return,
tedious evenings of T.V.
and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.
The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,
were her own. The man
in the fedora had made her smile.
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,
and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
As a young girl,
I was taught that I only needed 3 things in life to be happy.
First, I needed a husband. I needed his love and I needed him to take care of me. I also needed to make him happy so that he would never leave me.
Second, I needed a family. I was told having a family would be the greatest joy I’d ever experience and would keep me satisfied for the rest of my life.
Third, I needed a beautiful home that other people envied.
I grew up.
I experienced all these things
I am more unhappy now than I have ever been.
My home feels less like a home,
and more like a prison.
because I am bound to it.
I am bound to that home,
simply because I am a woman and this is what women do, right?
Because my gender defines me and confines me to this one lifestyle.
this is what my mother and her mother did,
and they seemed content.
But why should this be it?
I don’t even know who I am!
Ask me what I do,
I’ll tell you
“nothing, I’m just a housewife”.
Ask me about myself,
and I’ll tell you about my family.
because I am not my own person.
I belong to the stigma that my gender should define who I am
and put boundaries on my capabilities.
That I am limited to certain tasks
and I cannot be anything more than I am expected to be.
I have created this illusion that I am satisfied
when I am not.
I am disappointed and I’m wondering if this is it.
Is this really what I am made for?
My life is like clockwork.
Everyday I go through the routines,
over and over,
silently praying for the day when I am free to be whomever I wish.
But for now,
I am nothing.
I am only a housewife.
While most women love hearing these words from the lips of their lovers for the evening,
They aren't simple complements, they're ways to make me vulnerable.
Now I just sound like a white girl with issues, yeah I know.
But the truth is that everyone who has told me those words as only wanted what's between my legs.
And half the time, when they got it, they left.
I'm tired of men seeing me at 8am with no makeup or heels
Looking at me as if I had lied to them
Because I'm obviously looking for love in the wrong places
One night stands don't make hoes into housewives
But they will certainly turn housewives into hoes.
slithers up the stairs
black as night his mutant skin drips upward
she can hear him slink
one foot in front of the other
she retreats her hallowed head
the stalker climbs higher
higher than his arrogance could ever take him
and higher than the noose he has hung
for the depredation of her
screams forewarning in her head
this is the man which shares her bed
lunges forth and bolts the latches
head heart body spirit
bites the tattered tenderness
feels it bleed between his teeth
swallows her last atonement
so that there is nothing left to offer
envy rips through shivering splinters of a man
with nothing left to cover
she stalks across the bedroom
where she can see a hopeful face
where peaceful air once drifted high
will return again that way
a pis aller leap
from where she never stood again
this man will be the death of her