He didn’t buy flowers.
But one night he just picked up the hair brush off the bed and started brushing my hair.
We hardly ever went out for dinner.
But he sat on the cold tiles next to the bath,
feeding me toasted cheese. My wet hands,
wrinkling at the finger tips in the water.
I spend two hours with my make up. He says:
“Oh is base that stuff that makes you look a bit pale sometimes?”
But in the morning, he’d keep his face in my pussy. He’d go deaf when I tell him:
I think I just can’t come today.
He wasn’t impressed at my tight blue dress.
But he held my face to the sky, as he filled my mind with thoughts.
He pulled my hands from my ears, as he whispered to me in the dark
his secrets about myself
He didn’t complete me.
Quite the opposite. I’m terrified as he rips apart the puzzle.
He’s got a mirror to my face, and a flash light shining in my eyes.
I’m interrogated by his love.
Somedays I feel like a dream house.
You buy it, only to renovate every room.
The smell of wet paint clogging in my lungs.
I’m horrified by your love, your need to read and reread
every page of me.
But you hold me right through the night.
You keep wanting to see me
Naked. The answers that satisfy other people
don’t satisfy you. You capture my imagination,
as you bend me over the kitchen counter.
You don’t buy flowers. Were never interested in poetry,
But you’ve started reading it
Theresa Taylor is a journalist, writer and poet, living in Johannesburg, South Africa.