Skip to main content

Avon Calling (1980s Council Estate — Moulded)

 



AVON CALLING

1980's Council Estate — Moulded

 
There is something about lipstick
that’s already been worn before.
You would only ever do this with a family member,
possibly a friend.


But that moment—
when you put the lipstick to your lips,
the way is made,
the use has been moulded,
set and shaped,
moulded over time—
unlike oil and water—
my mum’s lipstick.


It just didn’t fit my lips.
How could it,
as mine didn’t fit hers.
We were not cut from the same cloth.


The lipstick: a pillar, an arrowhead — never mine.
It didn’t fit.
Just like my mum never fit.


Not all mum's fit jigsaw pieces.
We don’t all fit.
There was no way it could become mine.
There was no way I could become
the person that would fit those lips.


Maybe it was my earliest reconciliation—
realisation—
that I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be.
I couldn’t be moulded
in what she wanted me to be.
I just wasn’t
what she wanted to be.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie If we’re going to have an International Women’s Day, then let’s at least tell the truth about the one thing we’re all supposed to have in common. We don’t. We should rename it: International Unique Hormone Pattern Day. Because we were raised in a society that pretended everybody has the same period. Same hormones. Same bleed. Same reaction. Same PMT. Same everything. Copy‑and‑paste womanhood. Except now I can list at least twenty things that make one person’s cycle nothing like the next — and yet society made us believe we were all identical. Interchangeable. Predictable. “Women with women’s problems.” My best advice? Period Power by Maisie Hill. Learn your cycle. Learn your system. Know that you are unique. And don’t tolerate anything that feels wrong. That’s literally why we have the NHS. Arm yourself with fact information and go. I knew nothing about periods except that they arrived every month since I was 13 — until ...

An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

  An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER   I love my toothbrush, the circular motion, up and down, round and round.   Is it because I’m left-handed, or right-handed? I put it to the left, look in the mirror, rub my gum more than my tooth. One side sore, one side unclean. I loathe toothpaste. I hate it. I hate this smile. I hate the taste. But I love clean teeth— the touch of the tongue across the front, smooth, shining. Every three weeks, my sore gum returns. I forget what I’m doing, leave it whirling, mindless chore. I love my toothbrush. I love clean teeth. I loathe my sore gum. It’s a pattern I repeat, monthly, weekly, over-brushed, sore gum. When I’m old, really old, I won’t brush my teeth. Fifty years, twice a day, since I was nine or ten. Don’t get me started on toothpicks, tape, wax, gaps. But when I’m seventy-five— no more. I’ll rub the t...

Time (Inner Child Work)

  Time to be a child, said NO ONE ever.