by Rochelle Del Borrello
The man-eater
sucks upon the juices
savours the aroma
of bewilderment
by beauty
The game is played
to her advantage
the pressed flesh eroticism
stench evident upon
the mind of the toy
She devours
peeling away
the flesh exposing
layer upon layer
bones, organs
and finally
the heart
which she places still beating
upon the trinket-laden
charm bracelet
crowded by scattered hearts
of willing victims
she smiles.
Gathering the years over time
redressing the innocence
becoming less like a child and more like death
inevitable meanderings trap and pull
into well-worn tracks
we become like everyone else
and less like ourselves
Wise beyond our years
improvisation is a circulated falsehood
a mythological ideology created from nothing
a belief I nothing creates an emptiness
this illness of life kills the presence of the soul
disjointed thoughts make you forget
remember to forget yourself
The coming of age
brings so much and very little
the laughter mocks the tears of frustration
the sobs ridicule the waves of happiness
tender is the touch which pounds the flesh
the physical slap makes things real
remember to make life real.
Do you remember the night of summer lightning?
when the seasons changed
thundering humidity clashing upon itself
to create thick droplets of rain
we sat under the umbrella stars
under the talking sky
we spoke of faith and faithlessness
as the world shifted around us
we dreamed of what could be
and took a moment with us
the restless nature of the storm
we did not worry about the future
we were happy to have our passion
the rain is cleansing the moment before winter.
You can be red raw and still sing your song
You can have tears in your eyes and still tell your story.
The truth is where the tale lies
You cannot or should not wait to share it.
The emotion will help you to connect with others
Because everyone can see,
understand and communicate
with feelings
So don’t be afraid to bleed onto the page.
We all have the same blood in our veins.
Everything serves a purpose
ain’t anything going to waste.
A tear is love which doesn’t know
where to go, it had to come out
or else you would drown.
A beating heart, filled with unrequited regret
is your big soul expressing itself
remember we are made of light
and its got to shine
whether you want it or not
we can’t resist all of this love
sometimes it hurts, we ache for it
we cry for it, it won’t be denied.
None of it is wasted because it is
where we come from
and from whence
we return.
I know a bit of grief.
It's the moment you realise
you cannot go back on your steps
to make it better
or say I love you again
see someone's face every day,
hear their laugh, trace the outline of their smile,
hold their hand or hug them.
When you learn what it feels like to run out of time.
No more silent pauses in conversations
seeing them across the table,
passing the salad bowl at dinner.
All of those moments you take for granted
stop in your mind,
they are gathered up in memories
and the grieving begins.
I've learnt grief isn't bad,
it's all we have, really,
for our tears are our love
which used to go out
towards those we love.
After they are gone, it has nowhere to go,
so our unexpressed love
becomes our grief.
And as our passion is as undying,
as our mourning.
This strange sadness will never leave
not until our dying days.
It comes over us in the most unlikely moments
in the tiny flickers of memories
the flutter of butterflies
a microscopic movement is enough the overcome us.
Sometimes it's like a tap that
we need to open to let the pressure out.
But mostly, grief is a dark veil that wraps around
our hope, our happiness and faith
and covers our organs which
find they have an extra weight to carry
the resistance makes it harder to breathe
love and move forward when we don't
want to.
It may seem ironic
but I hope we never
stop grieving
because it keeps our
dearly departed near us.
Life doesn't stop
when someone dies,
it merely shifts
and changes into another
gear and somehow
we live with it.
Oh artist, please paint me
I'm desperate to be immortalised
not because I want to be remembered
I'm happy to be forgotten
but because I want to leap out of the page
through my own words
into another's heart
to connect.
To gaze into another's soul.
Through a time beyond myself.
When life becomes a thing of cold hard marble.
When your touch feels the chill
of placing your hand on a tomb.
Searching for warmth and another's touch
when nothing is left but the emptiness of absence.
That is when grief is in your heart.
The chill remains with you every day
I was lucky to have you,
hold you.
Be in your company because this moment is
ever so brief and precious.
You can never hold onto anything
just the love in our hearts
which echoes and reverberates through
bereaved souls.
When things become the stuff of cemeteries and funerals
when the touch of cold marble tombstones
are little consolation against the heat of fresh grief.
When death falls all around you
then that is the time to stop and breathe
hold onto the ones you love
it is impossible to say goodbye
so make memories
search out happiness and
follow what gives you the spark
which is life itself.
Except the unexpected
because I'm bursting with ideas
and I'm going to do it all.
So insanely talented,
yet terrified to do anything,
destined to be nothing
but a frustrated artist
too busy watching Youtube
scrolling Instagram and playing
Candy Crush,
brainwashed into wasting time.
Soul crushed by comparison.
Why bother trying when
is it all taken away from you in the end?
Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash
I’m not good with Mother’s Day. I don’t think anyone else who has lost a child ever can be a hundred percent happy with celebrating motherhood when they will always be missing their child. It’s an ache that never really leaves you sometimes, it’s a dull throbbing you can almost put up with, and you seem to get on with life for a while.
On other days the grief is so powerful that it squeezes your inner organs and makes the tears well up whether you want to or not, and you have to stop, acknowledge it, and let it all flow out. I thought I could open and close the tap, but if the water pressure builds up, your pipes will burst. Who knew grief could be described so aptly with a plumbing metaphor? Life is surprising.
Lately, the emotions snuck up on me in a pretty unique way. It will be 15 years since I lost my firstborn little girl, Estella Carmela Desiree. She was stillborn.
Estella got all tangled up with her umbilical cord. The doctor who performed my cesarean and untangled her said her long cord was wrapped three times around her neck, and as she turned around into the birthing position, her foot pulled at it, and she suffocated. It was a freak accident, like a child playing, hitting its head, and suddenly dying. I still can’t believe such a thing can happen in the womb. You’d think the womb is the safest place to be. I didn’t feel anything, and it would have been impossible to know. Even the doctor said to save a child, you’d have to be lucky enough to be monitoring him at the precise moment he is in distress, and even then, there would be no guarantee that you’d be able to save them in time.
I lost Estella at thirty-eight weeks, towards the end of my pregnancy, when everyone knew and was preparing for her arrival. I was expecting to hold her in my arms.
Instead, I woke up with a terrible sense of emptiness and longing that had never left me. I remember the pain of the operation, the nurse who made me stand up, the blood that ran down my leg, staining my slippers, and the sense that the whole pregnancy and suffering had been for nothing.
The ripple effect of Estella’s loss was felt collectively through my friends and family. They were all as heartbroken as I was. But you try to be brave. You wake up in the morning and try to function even though you are missing a part of yourself. I felt as if I’d lost my faith, my hope, a piece of my identity or soul. I felt so lost for the longest time. Even today, there is nothing worse for your self-worth than losing a child.
If grief has ever taught me anything, it is that it comes from love. The more deeply you love the thing or person you grieve, the deeper and more heartfelt your grief will be. Even though losing Estella felt like dying, I am comforted that my grief comes from a love I’d never experienced before.
I have this theory about love; it’s something that you absolutely cannot control; you have to let it out of you, or else you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Love cannot be contained; it’s bigger than we are. That’s why people are said to be glowing when they fall in love. People do stupid things when they are in love because they don’t know how to express what they feel; it’s often overwhelming.
I find the love I have for Estella never really leaves me, whether you believe the child’s soul stays near or that she is somehow haunting me. I prefer to say she’s still in my mind, in my thoughts, and she manifests herself in one way or another. Her birth/death date is coming up on the fourteenth of May, so I know I’ll begin to feel emotional. I try to say a prayer, light a candle or visit her grave at the cemetery, something to commemorate her.
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
The fact that the year my daughter was born (2007), the date of her birth coincided with Mother’s Day etched itself into my subconscious. So much so that on the morning of Mother’s Day this year (the eighth of May). The other day I woke up at five am after the strangest dream. I dreamt that my house had been robbed.
Then the realization hit me. During the week, I’d been following the story of Denise Pipitone, who had disappeared at Mazara del Vallo in the province of Trapani nearly 20 years ago. Sympathizing with her mother, Piera Maggio, who still believes her daughter is alive. The press revisited the case after a Russian girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Denise was found. However, a DNA test confirmed she wasn’t Denise. I remember thinking that’s how I felt, as if my daughter had been stolen from me. An irrational part of me is still waiting, longing for her presence in my life. So the dream wasn’t about my house being robbed; it was about those emotions, the sensation I still have in the pit of my stomach that I’d been robbed of my daughter.
The tears came welling up. I hadn’t cried for Estella for a while, so I must have needed to express my love for her once again. So I let them flow. It is so unfair to be denied your child, but there is nothing much you can do when something like this happens. The best thing is always to remember them, say their name, include them in conversations, in everyday family life, and talk about them with your friends. If you have pictures, keep them close; visit them if you have a gravesite.
I have a particular little shrine in my house with photos of my grandparents and Dad. Estella is represented by a small glass vase of crystal flowers. I’m always speaking with Estella, and everything I write expresses my love for her. The grief therapist I saw after her loss said that I’d be fine because my writing would help me, and it does.
Mother’s Day is difficult because I lost Estella, but it is also tricky because of her little brother Matthias who was born two years after her. Because now I have to be a mother to him. I have to be brave for him; he cannot see me crying. I need to be present for him. We do speak of Estella, and he loves her very much. But he, too, is very much aware of her absence in our lives, and it is a void to fill.
It’s difficult for me to see so many expecting mothers on social media showing off their pregnant bellies. Don’t get me wrong, I love babies, and I’m always happy for other women having babies. But the sharing of intimate photos brings back so many memories of my trauma. I wish people would be more sensitive to others’ losses. One in four people has lost a child, whether it be through miscarriage, abortion, stillbirth, SIDS, illness, or other terrible incidents that steal children from their mothers, fathers, and family.
When my son was born, I kept him to myself. I shared his photos only with friends and family because I didn’t want to trigger other people’s grief. I’d very rarely share anything personal about Matthias; even now that he is 12 years old, I still don’t put him on public display.
I’d say to anyone on social media that yes, your child is beautiful, unique, and loved, but this public forum is not the place to share. You can share little proud moments and snippets, but this isn’t what social media is about. It’s more about advertising, selling products and networking, not sharing personal things. I’d also debate if social media is not even the place to share opinions, but that’s another topic.
There’s no harm in wishing everyone a happy Mother’s Day, celebrating your mother, or sharing a newborn photo. It’s just about being aware of other people’s struggles. Those that feel the sadness in their hearts when they remember their pregnancies. And those who are still struggling in their motherhood journeys.
A celebrity will always push their brand or sell their photos for more followers or influence. Honestly, there is no need to publish your entire maternity photoshoot; you aren’t famous.
So please be gentle to mothers who are suffering, to those crying into their pillows in the early morning of Mother’s Day or on their angel child’s Birthday.
Please, be kind, empathetic and sensitive to others.
There have been better days than now,
felt less lost and confused
not so sad or deflated
I wish for one of those
better days instead of smack
bang in one of the worst ones.
Nothing going right
love went to waste
efforts all worthless
and so, so far away
from everyone I love.
The hurt comes in tears
that bastard blows up in
your face,
whether you like it or not
that emotion's going to come
knock you over and make you
I wish for better days.
They will come; be patient.
You can be red raw and still sing your song.
You can have tears in your eyes and still tell your story.
The truth is where the tale lies.
You cannot or should not wait to share it.
The emotion will help you to connect to others.
Because everyone can see you
understand and communicate
with feelings.
So don’t be afraid to bleed onto the page
we all have the same blood in our veins.
I have given birth to monstrosities
to atrocities filled with insurmountable deformities,
who died horrible, merited deaths as they never
deserved to be born.
I have birthed many rapturous angels who went straight to heaven
too beautiful for this world,
too innocent to survive.
I have killed hundreds, no thousands of my babies,
not because I’m a murderer, but because
they needed to be stronger
I have been re-incarnated after every disappointment
I pushed myself beyond the sluggishness of grief
and dusted off the ashes after the inquisitions
burnt me at the stake.
I’m a tired old ageless phoenix.
I thrive despite it all,
I reinvent myself
endless times over, revive my fading spirit
because my soul comes from a tough line,
from those who outlived their conquerors
from those who have lived despite the misery
created happiness from empty nothing
I stand upon the stepping stones
my ancestors have left behind for me
I never lose my way and keep moving
along with my self designated path
I thrive on spiting life.
Don't honour the famous and wealthy grey-haired film stars and businessmen
they are too comfortable and aren't struggling
they don't need honouring, they have found success and comfort.
We need to honour those who are living with struggles greater than themselves
and who do so without complaint.
I honour the single mother trying to make it to the end of the month
with five dollars in her pocket, working double shifts,
trying to feed her babies.
I honour the refugees whose homeland has been blown to pieces
Who have no choice but to leave behind their whole world and have to start their lives over.
I honour the army veterans who returned home broken people, used up by the army
unable to readjust, with trauma
limping through their lives, marching onto
oblivion without thanks or acknowledgement of their sacrifices.
I honour the bereaved parent who has suffered through the unnatural act of burying their child
or children.
The mother's and father's of adult children torn away at their prime, adolescents who show so much promise, children, newborns or those who never knew anything but the womb.
God only knows how they continue to breathe even though they have lost their best parts.
I honour the creative who keeps creating for the love of it.
For every artist who succeeds, hundreds will never be appreciated, published, seen or listened to.
For every criticism, self-sabotage may there be many who breakthrough
and lift every other artist.
I honour the sons and daughters who care for infirm parents.
Just as they were cared for, now the old become children again.
That they may have the same patience and love that every good mother is blessed with.
For every survivor, whose broken heart keeps beating.
Anyone who has a soul weighed down with trauma.
I honour their strength and pray for forgiveness while shifting the burden of their memories.
I honour abandoned children and those who help them to learn to trust again.
I honour the queer and gender-fluid, whoever have suffered through hate, self-loathing and toxic relationships
All lost souls who have been treated without dignity or as outcasts.
To all who have found love and acceptance despite everything, they have been through.
Those who have survived violence, illness and alienation.
Above all, I honour those who have not survived.
I remember you, I see you, I feel you in my heart.
Love overcomes adversity because love is love is love.
Who do you honour?
Everything creative is filled with self-inflicted torture and doubt.
We do it because once it's done there is something which exists beyond ourselves.
Creativity speaks to everyone at the same time.
A universal language connecting everyone to one another.
To remind us we all essentially go through the same struggles.
I blew you a kiss even though I wanted to give you a real one.
I turned around and walked away.
Heartbroken.
I wish you’d followed me.
I never wanted to hurt you, but I think I did.
I was so stupid and naive, I never saw you.
Actually I thought you didn’t like me.
It is frightening to bare your heart,
declare your feelings.
Most people are afraid
when it comes to big feelings.
Was I really that intimidating?
Couldn’t you have said something.
Why was I so blind?
Why did I have to fuck up my life so much?
Now we are so far from one another.
I don’t know if I can pull myself out of the hole I’ve dug.
I need to get out of this pit because no one is coming to rescue me.
And you don’t even know how much I ache for you.
I’m surely damned.
I prefer talking to myself rather than talking about other people.
It's nice to see others doing well, but the rest of someone's life is none of my business.
Gossip is the home of people who do too little and criticise too much.
That little green-eyed monster
filled with venomous envy
leave it in its own poison.
It's best to avoid talking about others.
I converse with myself, pen and paper or fingers and keyboard
a tête-à-tête with lense and aperture or paint and brush.
An opinion expressed to the full is the most fulfilling
element to life,
completing thoughts that steadily tick over in the mind
these are the things that interest me.
I see right through you
and into your wild madness
like a transparent teardrop
a bubble that bursts and dissipates
trickling down my leg
and into the ground
drying up in the sun
an anticlimax, all but forgotten.
Love is still here for you
as I light a candle
in front
of your photo
I remember how your grandson and I
smothered you with hugs and kisses
the last time we said goodbye
Our love for you remains
here suspended in the air
you are intertwined in these
three words.
Sometimes I get tangled up with everyday life.
One fine, straight cotton thread becomes entwined
around my family, work, children and economic situation.
Once it was easy to thread a needle and get to work as I please
now the loop is twisted and turned upon itself around others
and then back to me.
The more I try to pull away from it the tighter it becomes.
Like those poor sea lions and marine animals caught up in plastic
fishing lines cutting into their own skin
around mouths, restricting movement until they starve to death
Could I cut myself out?
What would be left of me?
The thread is cutting off chunks of flesh
surely there won't be much of myself left
the tangle is too tight to be unthread.
