Life Of A Woman
A Messy Poem
I have been a friend,
student,
book worm,
cellist, guitarist, pianist, and violinist
lover,
the new girlfriend,
whore,
artist,
dancer,
model,
influencer,
the ex-girlfriend,
alcoholic,
drug addict,
the ex-fiance,
the daughter and sister.
I have been all of these people in eighteen and more years,
but none of these are in order.
I have touched the hearts and skin of many and yet only very few have touched mine.
I have been the girl he dreams about
before he falls asleep,
the girl she worries about
when he leaves.
I have been the girl she’s friends with.
The girl he’s friends with.
The girl who broke a thousand hearts.
The girl who’s had her heart broken a few hundred times.
I have lived alone,
been homeless,
been stubborn and arrogant,
yet kind and loving.
I’ve been someone who refuses therapy,
yet begs for someone to listen.
I have read a few hundred books
and made up characters in my head,
some that haunt me in my dreams,
others that have brought me comfort in times of need.
I’ve watched a hundred films,
on my own
or with someone else.
Films that filled the void of silence and emptiness,
when there were no plotlines in life
to keep me occupied and content.
I have made playlists online and through my dusty
collection of records,
the symphonies of people
too talented to write poems.
I have made love,
and have simply fucked
people who were as empty
or as full of energy
as I was.
I have kissed girls and boys on their lips,
before I’ve even seen their hearts and souls
and what they entail.
My body has been trespassed by these boys before,
long before they could know my name
or why I was walking home alone.
My body has been loved before,
loved so intently,
roughly,
gently.
My body has nurtured these same people,
and fought these people off before they could rip my heart out.
I’m just a woman with a life of her own,
a life of seduction.
resistance.
refusal.
beauty.
madness.
And how courageously I have lived it.
Timidly, freely and cautiously.
