The others by Sophia Georghiou

Women who are others
because there isn’t another

Women who are others
meet at street corners on gazpacho soup nights
and think of their own bed made up like undisturbed snow

Women who are others
read breakfast pastries on the tube home,
thinking about how they’d rearrange themselves if they were a cherry filled doughnut
How they’d taste from waiting in the rain

Women who are others
take trips to the lake with the virgin hidden in their swimsuit
and listen to the dog urging them to get it over with in the water,
where no one can hear you scream

Women who are others
build an empire from anything they feel is worth using
until their cunt is a kid with a gun

Women who are others
wrap themselves in their own body bag
to breathe
wet dreams

Women who are others
meditate with their eyes open
and get too comfortable with their razor blade
until it tastes like cold soup with shavings of tongue

Women who are others
are their own blood swirling like raw dove, down the neck of the toilet
an act never mentioned in public

Women who are others
wait naked on the hotel bed
I can hear myself wobbling in the bathroom
after being told I can’t be fucked in the hotel room again

Women who are others
let the hoop of their thighs become a jump rope
just so they can be told that they are beautiful

Who now go for jogs in their dead shoes and shrunken leggings
replaying the tightness around their thighs and beautiful little arses in their heads

These fast women have their music so loud they don’t see the SUV coming;
but they’re beautiful
They’re beautiful
They’re beautiful

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