Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


There is nothing wrong with him.

Not in the sense that society expects.

He has a good job,

working with the hands that he’s obsessed with,

(he always seems to talk about them,

and their alleged talents),

he’s got his driving licence,

a real one,

not one of the little plastic ones,

from Legoland.



he’s a grown man.

He tells me,

all about wanting to get to know me,

but he broke into my study,

taking all my children from the shelf,

committing crime after crime,

breaking my heart,

before he had even won it,

desecrating all the days I held close

tearing down the tales I had built,

from the matter of my brain,

and the things that really mattered to me,

(which he never bothered to ask about,

by the way),

because he says my work “does it” for him,

(whatever that means)

and though I know,

it is no longer mine,

when I set it free,

it is still like watching my child,

being chased,

into the woods,

by wayward wolves,

who could never have the best of intentions.


I finally understand,

why my mother would hold my hand,

a little tighter,

when I was a girl,

as we walked past pubs,

with smoking areas,

sexual harassment minefields,

That baby is mine,

growing from my mind,

but still,

just as real and essential to me,

as if she crawled from my canal,

to arrive in my arms,

and though he thinks he’s done nothing wrong,

and I am too conditioned by alleged feminine empowerment,

that always seems to centre men,

to “kink shame” him,

or prioritise my own comfort,

I feel sick,

when he tells me that he wants to fuck my baby.


He says he likes our conversations,

but they are scripted exchanges,

where I am only permitted to tell him that I’m fine,

and to act impressed

that he expresses an interest in performing oral sex on a woman,

because if I ask him to ask about my interests,

I am being boring.

If I ask him to try a little harder to make me feel special,

I am being unreasonable.

If I ask him to treat my work with the same respect I do his,

I am being oversensitive.

If I ask him to leave me alone,

I am a bitch,

who isn’t giving him a chance,

because she’s up herself,

or thinks she is better than him,

because she went to university,

and does some artsy job,

and reads the papers,



I know he has needs,

but so do I,

and I’m trying to find an acceptable way,

to say that he just isn’t capable of fulfilling them.

Read My Books

Hear My Music

Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

Ask Jen





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