Indigenous Australian Non-Fiction

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Period. Stop. It didn’t make it. Period. Stop.

the sperm raced to the egg and now there sits a Zygote

My lesson here ladies and gents and other defines, the egg never chased a man

Nothing too cliché, he hadn’t begun to hit me yet

for the voice was loud enough to knock holes in the walls

that’s why I avoided my families calls

facebook shouted “Another THEM”

you retorted “As long as he isn’t blak”

clearly you don’t understand biology, let alone monogamy

flash back to the moment I sat in court

you had all your family around you, your enabling cohort

oblivious was an understatement

stupid love toxins flowing through my veins 

I am grateful mother nature gave me looks, books and well

ignorance remains

the Blastocyst has come and gone, an Embryo starts to do its thing

I could go another Kiev but my heart burn disagrees 

furthering my studies, I was completing my bachelor’s degree

working for money, I was working for DHHS, in the children category

YOU called me a bitch

I refused a kiss 

YOU threatened to kill me rip him out and dispose of me like a useless Tupperware container

I left to find a castle on a hill

the Foetus was now active and wanted daily fruit salad

today, he still wants a fruit salad

back then, I clothed him out of a suitcase

years ago, we lived in a Castle on a hill

two pet dragons, food and now

PERIOD. Stop. PERIOD. Stop. PERIOD. Stop

another thought of having him again

is the possibility of meeting you, reliving what was once then

we once lived in a castle on a hill 

two pet dragons, food and now

I dress him from glass wardrobes.

  Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry that as the Principal was talking to my son at eye level, my son’s response was “click tongue”.

Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry that I asked my son to use a tissue instead of his sleeve. He bellowed at me “THIS IS MY BODY AND I CAN DO WHAT EVER I WANT”.

Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry that when I asked my son to pull out his sneakers tongue as I tied his shoe; his response was to stick his own tongue out.

Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry that when my father, the all mighty hunter, army reserves Sergeant, asked my son to go to bed; my sons response “NEVVEERRR” as he walked off to bed.

Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry (singing) “In the ning nang nong”. Wow that was fun I said laughing; my son stepped out of the car and shouted “NOT FOR ME IT WASN’T”.

Dear Ingrid,

I am sorry that I woke my son up to get out of bed. He mumbled something, Monkeys? I asked. He said no, money please.

Dear Ingrid,

HOW EVER, dick head, wanker, cock stain, ball less cunsticle, useless piece of shit. I am not sorry for that.

I am not sorry for the people who walk out and abandon ship for bluer seas. Who do wrong and spend time in the four walls that should remain their hell. For those that smash, bang, crash with every interaction leaving a horrid taste and bruise. For that Ingrid, I will never be sorry.

Looking for clarity amongst the words and voices running laps around my head,

take a keepsake get in line, can I get to sleep yet?

Weeks turn into months, turn into years and I’m still stuck with these ideas,

clogging up my brain, like hair in the drain.

All I want is to go to sleep without the freight trains rumbling through.

Thoughts of the existential crisis run across the sea which caused this taboo.

You think I talk too much, use a can opener and look inside my head.

A disillusioned embodiment of an emotional blockage; thoughts to paper

spill out down my arms onto the keyboard into the screen.

HELP ME, HELP ME!

I’ve just created more space inside my head, are we done yet?

I’ve come accustomed to this idea that I overthink

and over analyse

and over imagine

and over love

and overbear

and over explain

and over care

and over share

Do I? Do you? I do. It’s the words and voices running within my head that prevent me from reaching out to you, looking for clarity amongst the imagery inside my head, can I get to sleep yet?