The Loneliness Of Being A Woman

Something borrowed; not just clothes and homes and heirlooms that pass down the generations, but also memories etched into our DNA and the loneliness of being a woman.

My hand-me-downs
smell like a home once lived in,
Currently vacated and up for sale,
Housing remnants of furniture and baggage
deemed too bulky to be taken with,
left behind and passed on to the next occupant;
Borrowed, but mine for the time being.

Their touch feels like
my mother’s warm embrace-
Sought out only occasionally,
yet always nestled in a safe corner of my cupboard,
Eager to wrap itself around me;

Slip into the skin of the person before me-
into, under, beneath, outside,
Yet never lie within,
For her story is
for her to safeguard,
And for my imagination to unlock;

I wonder if the hand-made floral motifs
were carved into the fabric
meticulously by her grandmother,
If she’d been ensuring their safe-keep
in honour of her ancestory;
Or whether it had been thrifted from a local store
in an attempt to barter responsibility of ownership
with second-hand sentiments,
If she too had been the first one
on someone’s waiting list;

I wonder if the wine stains were from
A trivial dinner-table fight,
A night of blissful intoxication
with friends and lovers,
Or whether it was just from a lonesome night
when she drank with her solitude,
Never to see the bottom of the glass;

Her alone gets under the sheets with mine,
Caresses its hair till it falls into a deep slumber,
Only to stealthily wake up
in the dead of the night,
and walk away with it,
Never to come back;

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In the morning when my alone
finds itself resting at your doorstep,
hoping you’ll be exhausted from your house hunt,

willing to settle for it,
It’ll be waiting to be passed on
to its next tenant;
Still borrowed, but yours for the time being.

Image source: Canva Pro

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