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Mostrando entradas de enero, 2020

Menopause

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I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me. My partner’s stomach looks like Buda’s.   I have his smile. From the café the aroma of coffee reaches me;  I taste the dirt covering my hands. I am a good companion; I cook, clean and care for.   I have nowhere to go in which to wear my red high heels. They sit forgotten in a box. He stabs my hand with his fork; it’s just another memory. I laugh with freedom. Overweight women crowd my genes.   I eat aubergine´s and paint my nails purple. If you could go back, they ask, what age would you choose? Eight.   I do not hesitate.