Gennem alle årene har jeg mærket
så alt for godt
hvordan flyene, færgerne, bilerne
har taget dig væk fra mig
mig væk fra dig
den alt for kolde telefon
eftermiddagene i det stille hus før nogen kom hjem
fraværet af din arm om min skulder
resten af den tid vi får vil jeg have
at de skal bringe os
Memory stick (pink)
Note book (purple)
Favourite cardigan (black)
Quite a few illusions (?)
The rock solid self-assurance I had for about five minutes around the age of 18 (?)
The extra car key (black)
The golden power of my limbs at age five (golden)
The skill of hanging upside down from a tree branch (definitely golden)
Several umbrellas (mostly black?)
My sleek, firm 16-year-old skin (freckled)
My need to be right always (ugly)
Gloves; my own, my baby sons (multicolored)
Some friends (were they?)
Boyfriends; my desire overwhelming, theirs negligible? I don’t know.
The blue angora jumper I once thought held the key to someone discovering that I, too, am indeed desirable (discovering the fascinating inner self which I find it hard to trust, myself)
My wimp-ness to pain: I swallow it up in large quantities. Puncture my breasts, pull my pelvis apart, step on my head.
Two beloved cats. When moving, alone, with my divorcee father, they disappeared. Couldn’t cope with a new, strange neighborhood, an unfamiliar, always scary, house. (Who could?)
My power over what was done to me.
Myself. In glimpses.
It is late.
But too late to find again some parts that were mine;