That difficult age
The TV clatters away
My brain stays grey.
And deep in the inner crevaces
tiny cameras play back chaotically edited reels of my life.
There I am at four with my knickers on the floor
Crying because Tommy pulled them down.
And there I am at eight telling dirty rhymes that leave parents mouth agape.
Then at fifteen
I would never be a sweet sixteen.
Now at eighteen
I am trying to convince my mother that I'm not JUST her little girl.
Can't she see the changes in me?
I understand her resistance to this
It's not cute
she can't really be proud.
It's just meant I'm not around that much.
But these changes are inside
They cannot be denied.
I've wept a lonely diet of closet masturbation.
The fact remains that there will be a change, to her little girl, to me.
However, I will always love you Mum.

Rapture
Someone told me
that Rapture was a girl.
That she was luscious
and delightful!
That All Men love her...
Rapture is a wonderful name for a faerie-like girl,
but I'm no faerie, I'm Me!
So they call me Rapture
and they see that I have full breasts, full lips and moist brown eyes,
and they like to call me 'Pet'...
But, like All women
behind my eyes is my brain,
beneath my breasts beats my heart,
and behind these lips are teeth -
and I can bite!
Though I don't.
Because it's so much easier to get what I want,
by pretending
I'm just a dumb blond.
I even dye my hair.
Sometimes I stamp my feet and scream,
I cry like a petulant child.
I do it, because thatıs what they expect,
from a beautiful woman with a name like Rapture.
I let you make love to me.
Prize me, fill me with compliments, admire my form - like a vase.
Iıve often thought of razor blades - dreamt of cutting away this beauty that's not me....
But, you think I'm being 'falsely modest'.
You think that I'm not grateful for what I have.
Oh, but I am!
Yes, life is so much easier for me because I'm beautiful.
That is not my fault.
Just think,
how much harder it is to be recognised as a person,
as you are -
When the eye is given no reason to look deeper...
One last thing
My name isn't Rapture
It's Jen!


Both poems by Aletha Zsltrya-Dickenson











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