A death, a friend gone too young,
Words left behind – treacle if she were living,
But poignant given her age.
You are sad, and distant, cold to me,
Because of the calamity of our relations,
Before the wake we speak and you say,
I don’t think I love you any more.
I am stunned, but not surprised,
Tempestuous is the word for us,
Blowing up and out and all about.
Your temper, my critique,
And I have fantasised about being alone,
But I won’t be alone will I?
I’ll have two teenage sons to raise,
A demanding job,
One son home-ed because of his inherited,
Personality. What’s best?
Two of these types, or one?
Better to focus on my son?
Or shall I keep pushing through my fourteen hour days whilst,
Keeping the peace, hiding my critique,
And fantasising about a home that isn’t shabby,
Flabby, grubby and worn.
A home in which only I take pride,
And you deride – I don’t mind that hole in the wall.
Deferred that shit onto me I see,
Your most rigorous quality, deferral of responsibility.
My new journal states,
‘I am what a feminist looks like’
I cried at this gift,
It felt like a slap, a wake up girl.
You have compromised your world.