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lyrics

‘Bruise like a peach’ they say. The peach, swollen, tender, juicy inside. Bruises I never knew how I got, they just appeared on me. I guess something must have happened. Hey, what do you think love is? Do you think the body loves itself? It mends itself, tends to itself. Do you think the body loves the mind? Do you think the body can love other bodies independent of the mind? I’ve thought about it and I still don’t have an answer. Maybe it’s not my mind that should have the answer at all; maybe I should ask my body. Do you think your body would look the same on television? How about your mind? Would it look the same? Do you think we understand each other? Do they bruise the way we do?

A tyre floating down the street past the church. Makes quite a good inflatable! Said the person hanging in it, socks off, skin out, dipping their hand into the salty stream every now and then. ‘Huh’ thought the womangirl.

The hospital of my body is mending, a calm and quiet word, tranquil but for one thing at a time, stethoscope, cold, pause, clean, pause, gloves, and gel, and keys, and doors shutting over, and here’s when you come back, here’s when, papery thin crinkle, here, hear, here’s when.

Someone swam towards the womangirl. That sinking feeling. The woman-girl could hear blood coursing through her body, the fist-sized machine at the crux pulsing away.

Loss doesn’t necessarily mean death. It can also mean leaving home, illness, change of job, moving to a new home, leaving school, a relationship breakup. How long does grief last? It can go on forever, come back whenever.

‘It’s natural. This. Water. It’s the most natural thing in the world.’
The womangirl closed her eyes. The tears still found a way to birth themselves into the cool evening light.

The grief process is most often experienced in cycles as opposed to in a linear fashion. It can be compared to the act of climbing a spiral staircase. Things can appear as though you’re going in circles when you’re actually making progress.

The womangirl has not figured out how to stop crying, or why she’s crying, but you know, she’s not asked anyone for help. She thought she had to go it all alone. That sinking feeling.

After the initial shock of loss, one may begin to feel more pain and sadness. Friends and family who mean well may skirt around or avoid discussing the loss due to their own discomfort, or because they fear making the person feel worse.

‘I know how you feel.’ Sylvia said to the womangirl. ‘No you don’t’ she replied. ‘I do. Remember the earthquakes a couple years ago? That was me.’

‘You need to let yourself be a person. A woman and a girl.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘I can tell you that you won’t find peace by trying to win a victory against your emotions. It would be more realistic to make a truce, sign a treaty, live together.’

Sylvia was eleven years old. The womangirl looked at her and saw the girl she’d been stifling in herself.

credits

from The Womangirl's Flood, released February 12, 2021

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Hel MacCormack London, UK

Hel MacCormack is a 25-year-old writer, composer, lyricist, performer, and comedian from Liverpool, currently based in North London.

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