Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Shark Week

Is my life over?
Is this all there is?
Am I lost in the thunder,
thrown into dismay as the world crashes to pieces around me,
or am I just hormonal?

Sometimes,
I wish that I had been a braver babydoll three years ago,
and stepped into the sweetness of the sun,
but there was so much to distract me,
so I could forget the scorch of silence as I turned my key and stepped into an empty house,
instead of the sun.
Is this another one of those times where I am asking difficult questions of my soul,
or am I just menstruating, and assigning too much meaning to what it does to my body?

I have a lot to cry about.
Failed romances,
failed remodelling of my life,
tension headaches and the typical tyranny of time,
and the ever present reminder that it slips away from me, and my body clock with every trip around the sun (that I failed to just jump into).

It is a blue Christmas, in July.
I am eating ice cream and buying myself gifts that I cannot afford,
because my body is crying at my failure to make a mother out of her,
or a wife,
or just something to be proud of,
and she stared with such affection at the sun that I had no choice but to distract her with something shiny.