I think that if you keep telling people that they are rubbish, being strangers is the best you can hope for… Anyway, as Audre Lorde tells us, “For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action.”
After all these years, why is it that we are still strangers?
When you first came to my place, I welcomed you in.
Yet you took everything from me!
You took my food, my clothes, my house ornaments… you even took my children!
You changed my keys, changed the furniture, complained about the temperature, laughed at all we said and did.
And then I came to your place, and you wouldn’t even let me in until I paid you!
You asked me all sorts of “security” questions.
When I got indoors, you didn’t even let me sit on your chairs… you made me sit on the floor!
As long as we have known each other, and you can’t even pronounce my name.
Each time you get yourself into trouble, it is somehow my fault.
When you need something, I have to pay for it.
Yet everything I have ever owned now belongs to you.
You refuse to give anything back!
After all these years, why is it my fault that we are still strangers?
