It’s not very often I do my daughter proud
As I struggle to climb a colourful frame or slide.
While she clambers free and easy, giggling long and loud,
My bones feel far too worn, my hips that bit too wide.
But one muddy day through a field freshly ploughed
The only way home was over a fence that could subside.
She cheered me on as I inched slowly over the gate,
Saying: ‘You’re just as good as someone who is eight.’
Something about your mascara eyes
And your coral painted lips
that look confused, not scary really,
so are you sticking to the script?
But beyond the puffed up, stuffed old shirt
And the pulled-in little waist,
I wonder:
Are your twiggy fingers ready to fight
Or have you put on your bravest face?
There was a time when pink was the shade
For skirts and shoes, bags and braids.
From the palest of rose to a magenta hue
Her world was a sugarplum peek-a-boo.
But princesses, fairies, fluffs and frills
Are no longer the ways she gets her thrills.
I blinked. She grew. Did I miss a trick?
Oh, those pink days just went by too quick.
I’m made of old skin and yucky stuff.
You can clean all day. It’s never enough.
I collect and clump. The havoc I create
absorbs your projected rage and hate.
With subtle poise I get up your nose.
You sneeze. You curse. A life decomposed.
I lurk. I linger. I’m a puffball of shame
that with your duster you think you can tame.
But I’ve got a special kind of knack
To outlive all threats of attack.
Mop, sponge or sucking vacuum,
I’m stubbornly stronger than a sweep of your broom.
So leave me be. Leave the dust to the dead.
For today, go out and be yourself instead.
He wants it quiet. I like it loud.
He prefers himself. I crave a crowd.
Listen to the battle of him and me.
He needs attention. I create it all.
He wants to know what’s real. While I just feel surreal.
Sense the battle of him and me.
He likes his sauce red. I much prefer brown.
He always shops for stuff. I prefer to verb and noun.
Articulate the battle of him and me.
He wants it every day. I’m more like once a week.
He’s pret-a-porter. I’m much more boutique.
Wear the battle of him and me.
He can forgive. I can judge and blame.
He sleeps with calm. I lie awake with shame.
So maybe this battle’s between me and me.
A sight of you is rare: a flicker of fleeting soul
that’s dark and deep and draws my lens.
A sense of you is precious: a layer of feather
in a pond of green and white and beak and pen.
A feel for you is magic: a glimpse of shadow
connecting to a light
that shines somewhere within.
inktuition 