Little Pieces of Me.
Wonder woman is in cinemas this week.
If only everyone knew I was really Wonder Woman.
I may not look it on the outside, but inside I have grown tall and tough. Powerful.
I can quickly deflect bullets, lasers, and other projectiles with my impenetrable bracelets.
Sure, I still have my weaknesses, holes that sometimes leak.
I poke my fingers at the holes in my sides though, as best I can.
I have never been one to free fall into addiction.
The hook always skimmed close to my head, but it never
latched.
So many times, when I was battered and weak.
You would think it would be so easy for me to then reach over an uncrossed line for a bottle or pill.
I have known others who had. I always viewed it as such a sad weakness, a flaw. If only I k
None of it Matters.
The plastic, the gadgets, the high glossed magazines; the heels with the right brand name, faded out on the soles, from all the running you do to keep in front.
Things obtained to make life easier, dull a pain, stroke an ego.. to make you feel like you mean something while you hurl yourself forward trying, always trying, and all for what..to keep up with Joneses down the road?
It just doesn’t matter.
I think everyone knows that deep down.
I always have. I still want it though. It is in us all, I suppose. A consumer particle added; an evolutionary shift.
"Please Will," she begged, kissing me again, reaching for my other hand and trying to pull it around her. "I want to be with you so much it's making it hard to breathe".
"It wasn't just a physical attraction between us. It was something more with Hanna, some chemisty in our blood, something between us that snapped and crackled, that made me always want just a little more than I could take. She offered friendship, I wanted her body, She offered her body, I wanted to hijack her thoughts. She offered her thoughts, I wanted her heart".
Lying with eyes wide open, I know every CRACK and every corner of my bedroom ceiling.
Again I am here in the sticky heat awake, frustrated, yearning for what, I don’t quite know.
I am thirsty, but there is never enough water to quench it.
These past few months I have connected with something almost biblical. Very deep inside, it rolls around and around and whilst overwhelming, manages to also feel like a long slow torturous burn.
I have one delicious memory from my childhood.
One simple, ordinary moment in time that was savoured.
Bath time.
An evening ritual. One that made me innately aware of being planted solidly in a family unit, part of a bustling household and never more secure in that deceivingly inconsequential nightly routine.
It was a painful blister, on the arc of my right foot.
It was one that had stopped me wearing closed in shoes for a week. It was red raw and puffed up and as big as a 20 cent piece.
It had happened as all good blisters do. Having fun.
My husband and I spent a hot summer day, walking the length of an overgrown edge of a channel.
Before there was all of this and things were hard. Before I moved through life tactically and knew about pressure.
There was a large, clunky dress-up trunk, at the back of the sun-soaked kindergarten room.
It had dents in it.
Dents made from my young teacher I now suppose.
As she pulled and pushed it to do something amazingly romantic perhaps - fleeing a Budapest bedsit in the middle of the night, where a lover slept soundly.
Catching a plane, then a train to a dusty country town for a new start. A chance to disappear into something other than herself. Resting it down gently, filled with old costumes, in the midst of my class-roomed world.
Through the upstairs bathroom window, the late afternoon light streams.
The kind of light that catches all of the tiny particles in the air, as they gently float around.
Specks of dust drifting; eventually falling.
The room feels like a warm cocoon, despite the cold tiled floors and the flat slabs of Caesar stone, glass and porcelain. My naked skin, in a rare moment feels comfortable, at ease..in no rush to bundle itself up to chase warmth and hide again.
The first time I shrugged his irritating hand from my shoulder I was on a crowded dance floor; under flashes of coloured light. Black dress; eyes sparkling; head spinning.
A brief hostile connection, in the middle of a grungy, underground pub. What a dive.
Paint had peeled off the cracked, yellow, smoked stained walls and feet stuck to the once bright red carpet, now melted black from drunken shoes scuffing their way around sweaty, lithe bodies.
