March 9, 2020

Anger, don’t express it, and you will immediately open the door to solutions instead of arguments

I write poetry because I feel like I have to. It spills out of me like a rushing river, sometimes even a waterfall. I could no easier stop that flow than I could hold back the ocean…

I can edit a single poem for years sometimes. Finding that perfect word to fit in the perfect spot can be the most agonizing process. It’s not just about getting it right, it’s a bending, a stretching of myself. A way of growth and personal challenge. And sometimes I edit because the damn thing just doesn’t make any sense…

Abigail Wildes
Interviewed by Colleen Anderson 17th February 2020

Such an androgynous teen. Old men desired me because of it. I could be so pretty, so easily fetishized – compliant and submissive to their darker needs and desires. One of them called me “a wild tigress”, and his greedy eyes seemed to see to my soul.

To them I was a tease – provocative – an open invitation: and they were are all hunger and expectation. I was the whiff of helium that made them light-headed. They prowled afternoon cinemas, silent and starving, like wolves seeking fresh prey. On rainy afternoons during the long summer vacation, I would frequent the local cinemas, those dream palaces, like a feast of innocence waiting to be tasted.

‘Could I get you an ice cream?’ Their voices trembling slightly as they asked the question during the interval, each one heavily superimposed on the other in my memory. ‘Yes, I’d love that. An ice cream tub, please…’

Their eyes were always cautious but filled with an old wish. They’d do almost anything to touch my pearl white body beneath my clothes. They were all the same – all suffering the same exquisite distress. The same, perhaps, unexpected lust. I am, after all, Spring to their Winter.

Later, in the darkened auditorium, a hesitant hand on my trouser fly – as if it were a page to be turned, opened, in an act of discovery that would leave him/them breathless.

Fingers on my face, tracing the curve of my baby mouth. Then lips brushing lips and gently his/their tongue/s entering my mouth. Always the same. The same loud exhalation of breath, the noise of our aching lives.

Their trembling fingers, I must admit, gave me a huge sense of power over them, these men. They trembled like leaves in a wind under a fading moon. My body had power. It turned their heads, made them foolish. So much so, they’d offer money to get what they wanted.

And I’d accept. I’d let my mind wander, separate from them, just a short walk away – but just far enough.

Dive bomb clusters of kisses followed. I would play my part, of course. Unpredictable, wild, dangerous – beautiful, even. And yes, I would suck them, each in turn, cradle them on my tongue, tenderly, then in to the private cave of my mouth, I’d take them. And like wolves they would silently howl at the moon, sway with the tides, pull, bite, claw this offering of flesh while I sucked them slowly dry –