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?