Making Sense of My Life- Of Art, Years and Fine Lines

I hope one day,
It will all make sense.
Those stew stains on the living room walls,
Painted in the fashion of art,
Splashed across the canvas by the lunatic I was given for a father,
Who usually painted in that shape-
Drunk as a sponge and filthy as a pig-
His artistic phase.

Those cracks in my bones
And the pain in my spine,
Those cramps and the fine lines-
I am getting old before my time.
And I will look eighty when I am forty,
Having lived on rents and bills and cigarettes,
And working on weekends and nights,
For that body I called mine
For not selling that body I called mine.

Those lovers and worshipers,
Who fucked me like
I was merely a hole
In a pound of flesh-
A vagina with hair
And breasts with rashes.
And their ‘I love yous’
Vanished quicker than semen from their dicks.
They called me a whore,
But never left a penny for a tip.

Those distant stories of my grandmother-
Wailing like a willow
Over her nonsense and her sins-
Of eighty years spent in a one bedroom house
With a clogged toilet,
Crying over her virgin daughter and the death of her children,
Parkinson, abuse and snobbery,
Different ailments took them.
Some she let break marriages and steal babies.
Some she watched die.
And some she buried alive.

If the dead speak,
The ghost will tell you-
Of the little girl who today writes and prays,
And who died crying and praying under the bed,
Hiding from her father-
I hope one day,
It will all make sense!

artwork by Guilhem Chabas


One thought on “Making Sense of My Life- Of Art, Years and Fine Lines

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