My hammock from Managua, wild jasmine scents on the terrace. He rests there now… in my hammock. Like my ex on a pillow, so the bum wouldn’t hurt from sitting too long. It wasn’t time for sleeping. I had to fight for his attention, be his mother – a role I despise. Life is too short for bitching, love is work, wrote Fromm, you make an effort. I’d rather be alone than trapped in a neurotic game. I don’t want the fight anymore, it doesn’t turn me on. He rests in the hammock, can’t contain me, I won’t play. Private party, dark accounts away, I take my words, my freedom, my way. Thumbelina with the mole, his world isn’t feeding me. I need my own kind, my hood. Smashed the kitchen once, now barefoot, wiser, laughing loud. Blackberries like bombs in a forgotten garage, they wanted to put me in the dark, but I laughed – mockery against absurdity. Domina without sex, secrets without names, a role I no longer play. I drove through the night, laughing at my crazy life. A stranger in women’s clothes reminded me of city borders, masks we wear to survive. He rests in the hammock, can’t contain me, I won’t play. Private party, dark accounts away, I take my words, my freedom, my way. Hung words on strings in the forest, stories set for ridicule. Red threads in the dark, attempts to light a fire. Art became my anger, my freedom, my voice. He rests in the hammock, can’t contain me, I won’t play. Private party, dark accounts away, I take my words, my freedom, my way.
