Being woman . . .

The slow-breathing, sonorous, strong, and ever-there,
Is counterpoint to the ticking clock,
The passing of time does not fade the memories,
But rather it cloaks them in gossamer, a swirl of conformity
And the safety of silence. Always silence.
Shame. The deep-red blush of guilt, reminding and replaying
Time and again, the recollections of rough fingers
And of tobacco breath, and beer, and three days not washed.
The ache, the heaviness, the weight of his body pinning her
Fast to the bed. All these things.
The sharp pain, the failure, the stolen sense of self.
All of these things are there, in the fractured melody
Of his deep breathing, and in the
Counterpoint of the ticking clock.
Callous lips that bite and snatch at ageing and wrinkled skin.
The bass-line of the voice that mocks
And condemns. All of these things.
But still, this is all, is all, is all there is,
There is no more, nothing.
Being woman.

© 2ndwitch, 02/06/14

(My thanks to Martyn Joseph, http://www.martynjoseph.net, for his song 'This Being Woman' for pushing me to actually write this.)