The Apple Rose

2015-10-06 12.32.38

When I left for the USA at the start of October, the thought of letting someone in made my body curl inward. The suggestion of sleeping next to someone made me want to cry. Going to work had been such a struggle. Speaking to people, sexualising myself, being sexualised, disrespected, adored – all of it was too much. Breaking my own heart and deciding on having my womb raked when I wanted to keep the autumn leaves was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.

The guy who was 50% responsible  claimed absolutely no responsibility, he did not help me when I asked, he expected thanks for telling me I was doing the wrong thing by considering the alternative which he did not welcome. This cavernous human being was so incredibly awful that I had to send that little spirit on rather than let it enter this world with him as a father. This misguided, egotistical narcissist was so lacking in sensitivity as to flippantly tell one of my dearest and most intuitive friends about how the other girl he got pregnant two weeks after me was so cool about it, she just dealt with it like you’re meant to, without making a fuss, without being difficult, without being a bitch and making him feel bad. This moron was so self involved that he would say this to a woman in her second trimester of pregnancy while she stood with her face perfectly composed, hands lightly shielding her belly from anything he had to send forth to the baby girl growing in there. She called me when she arrived home, shaking with rage and disbelief. I was at work, about to go on stage. I was trembling. I was still pregnant. My legs felt like they’d disappeared, as though my torso was hovering above 6 inch heels, each guiding the other out into bright lights and an onslaught of loud.

My friend had withstood the pathetic tirade of this squirming lumbricus as only a queen can, “I will not be conquered by a fuckwit Billie. I just won’t, and nor will you.” This woman knew the extent of he and I. She was our number one supporter in the beginning but swooshed her skirts in his blind little face at the end. Dismissed by royalty. He’ll be flailing, nothing more than brainless matter at her feet til kingdom come, taking any breath shared in the same room to mean she doesn’t see him for who he is, as if the sharing of oxygen alone will absolve him of himself. What a douchebag. What a dickhead. I could not curse a child with him for life, when in 8 weeks I went from one of the happiest versions of myself to the most broken B side mix tape of the shittiest band ever known to man. Imagine how fucked up you’d be, if you had to have him as a dad? Imagine the cycle of pain and suffering as this child, my child and his, spun its way through relationships with family members, partners, its own children? I could have no part in this. Cycles have to be broken.

By the time I left Australia I’d emerged from the worst. I still didn’t smile from my heart, but I wasn’t overtly grieving or consumed by anger either. I went straight from La Guardia to Brooklyn and a guy I’d never met in real life before. He took me out of NY and away to East Hampton the evening I arrived. It was so calm and pretty out there. He was fun and silly like the old me. He reminded me of all my favorite parts of the girl who had been buried in snow for months. There was a rose bramble growing in a car park over some whitewashed  fencing. The roses smelt like rose, lemon and apple. Felt like all the answers were sitting in that moment when I had my face in those petals and let my heart fall in. Sharing those seconds, elongated with magic, a stranger standing right beside me, face mushed next to my face, arm resting against my arm. I was suddenly clear. My thoughts felt like my own again and I laughed when I realised that somehow, I felt beyond safe with this man. That moment felt like home. He had absolutely no idea. I hadn’t breathed a word of anything to him. It wasn’t an outpouring of secrets and acceptance of my darkness that brought me close to him.  I don’t know why. I felt like myself. I exhaled. Finally. All my shit, started to melt off me. I could feel myself as broken but getting ready to stir and shift the pieces. Later that day I wrote. I hadn’t written anything much for months. I hadn’t had the reserves of strength it takes to put all this down and still be able to press on with my day having played the painful history over in my head. The reality of it sitting in solid, ordered characters confronting my face with lines and lines of pain in words on paper.  That afternoon I lay on my stomach in the lounge room and I wrote. I wrote with my hair draped over covert tears as they made their escape down my face before I myself absconded from the room and passed out for hours. Exhausted. My Home Fire cooked our first supper like a boss named Jesus and I woke up to a table laden with food and butter and warmth.

I forgot about it until a couple of weeks later when I’d moved on to North Carolina. When I dug it up again I found my little love prayer for the future. Loneliness is inherent in most people i know, or maybe it’s just me. But we are creatures to love and be loved. That’s just how it is.

IMG_1066

 

I want to breathe unhindered.

To feel the cold wind,

the golden syrupy sunshine,

to smell the apple rose right down to where my heart lies beating,

whispering in rhythms.

Tell my all of the magic that emanates from simple things.

I want to give my love to someone and know it will be treasured,

to show myself.

Give my heart and have it held in open palms,

a baby bird to be cared for.

Share my joy with me.

Feel the same light glide inward across fingertips that keep me safe from any darkness they made themselves.

 

Cradle my head.

Uncrush my heart.

Dint by dint.

Scratch by scratch.

Smooth the scars from my skin.

Kiss my lips with dew drops.

Press flowers into my hair.

Love me.

Without fear.

Let my face always look upwards to yours and trust my neck wont break.

My head won’t roll.

My heart won’t bleed in rivers from me,

cascading down my legs,

pooling at my toes.

 

Vibrate. With me.

Let each cell jump with joy and noticing.

Have each moment this smile lingers,

bask in the assuredness of its immortality.

Answer me in songs,

speaking five tongues.

Dance with me in rhythms nobody else cares to know.

Leave the giant blooms of the oriental lily.

Wade through heavy curtains of its smell they made.

Leave its stems in the crystal vase to stew in money.

Walk a little farther.

Come, bury yourself in me.

I am the apple rose.

IMG_1034Final two photos taken by Misha Jenkins on Instagram @miloscameros.

Advertisements

13 thoughts on “The Apple Rose

  1. You have such a way with words, capturing essences most of us either shy away from or never bother noticing. Keep writing, I’ll keep reading. Hope we share a meet cute sometime while you’re in NC.

    Like

    • This one was nice to write just because of the mushy East Hamptons part. I’m so happy that i wasn’t conquered by a fuckwit and that a crazy wonderful stranger handed me my wings back. I was wondering where they went and if I’d ever see them again. You might see me around NC sometime if you patrol the bakeries and any eatery that serves derishuss fatty foods. I go on patrol every year, searching high and low for the quickest ways to get good ol’ fashioned Southern Saddles on my arse!

      Like

      • “Southern Saddles” – that is amazing, I just might have to use that sometime! Having getting out of a loveless relationship that does affect little ones, I connect with aspects of love and loss on different levels. I’ve also recently found my wings, and trying to figure out how to use them properly. Hopefully the pastry patrol leads to amazing things for you, just keep writing. You’re not alone, no one is. The void seems expansive until you realize others are looking with you, just from a different perspective.

        Like

    • I haven’t felt very strong or brave at all to be honest. But I guess that’s why there’s a million movies and books on “the triumph of the human spirit” with “hilarious results”. Well, maybe not in the same movie but I definitely know there’s some funny shit coming up over this exact same ordeal. Thanks heaps for your positive comment and for taking the time to write to me.

      Like

  2. Hello “Billie” I was a gentlemen friend who spent time with you and will never forget you. Your writing is amazing, personal and intimate. It shows a side of you only fortunate people are most likely to see. I went through the process of creating an account to tell you this, I hope you understand the depths of my interest. My email is jtpolley77@icloud.com, hopefully we can keep in touch.

    Like

    • How could I deny a guy who is one of only two people to understand the desolate washing machine photo? I’ll be in touch. Thank you so much for the night. Cherry on the cake of a week that was beyond extraordinary for me xX

      Like

  3. That is one of the moving, upsetting and inspiring pieces of writing I have ever had the privilege to read and the beautiful poem at the end shows a real talent! I have great admiration for your strength and I want to be as brave as you when it counts. Like you said we all experience pain in life but we don’t have to experience suffering as well. Looking forward to reading more of work

    Like

    • I haven’t quite reached the point of not allowing the pain to graduate to suffering but I am starting to realize it’s possible to perhaps let the suffering start the course, but not get the degree…or the masters…and definitely not the doctorate.

      Like

    • Thank you. It stings for me to read so I stay away from that one but I am happy that others are getting something out of it. One of my girlfriends from work told me her mum printed it off and stuck it to the fridge. ULTIMATE COMPLIMENT.

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s