She left snowdrops


she sends innocent looking texts
begging my attention,
with overblown love, extravagant kisses,
oft repeated claims of how she longs to see me,
and how much she misses me;
her written words sometimes timerous,
occasionally belligerant,
but more often tinted with simulated humility;
when I reply she frequently ignores me.

yesterday she left snowdrops.

she loves me with an unquenchable thirst,
which may be behind her desire to destroy me.
what better way to do the deed,
and at the same time, to repay a world that she feels
should have been designed to hug her figure,
than to tear down her own walls?

but she left snowdrops,
freshly picked, outside my door.

as the months stretch, my grief sometimes recedes
as if she were already dead, but each time it hits,
the wounds gapes, stretching a further inch.

she left snowdrops;
fragrant snowdrops, promising spring,
and fresh beginnings.

I get regular reminders of her damaging acts,
her statements to the law, exempt from facts;
false allegations of rape and abuses,
directed at any man who finally refuses
to satisfy her single-minded aim
by filling her collapsing, greedy veins,
and anyone who’s kind enough to care,
will quickly fall into her snare.
her former beauty has long since fled,
so she sells ugliness and shame instead;
there are plenty of men with sordid tastes;
mysogenistic types with a longing to abase.
but she left snowdrops;

snowdrops, shy, downcast, not quite meeting my eye,
fragrant snowdrops, promising spring
and fresh beginnings.

I hear her pleas,
recognise her ancient needs,
but fear her stammering serenade,
which precedes unreasonable demands
to become aquainted with her fantasies,
to follow her down greasy alleys
and to watch her shrink,
until she is no more
than withered skin.

she left snowdrops;
snowdrops, radiating white innocence,
snowdrops, shy, downcast, not quite meeting my eye,
fragrant snowdrops, promising spring
and fresh beginnings.

she always hoped that one day,
she’d emerge from her imagined chrysalis
to find she was the most adorable butterfly
in a meadow full of plants aching to feel her weight,
where she would flirtatiously flutter,
gracing only the loveliest of blooms with a kiss,
leaving each one blushingly longing for her return.
but the drugs carried my daughter away,
all that remains is the ghost
of tired habit.

so she left snowdrops,
my beloved, lost child left snowdrops at my door,
pale, dripping tears.

(Written January 2016. Edited April 2016.)

©Jane Paterson Basil

Author: janebasilblog

Jane sits around and writes a bit, then she does some other stuff, then she sits around and writes a bit more, then she eats something. Sometimes, at night, she goes to bed.

23 thoughts on “She left snowdrops”

    1. Thank you Alan.
      I’m not keeping up with stuff at the moment. It’s frustrating to read a really good post, and then not be able to comment. I spend a lot of time fiddling around trying to sort it out, and failing.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. You’re welcome Jane.
        I deleted my site.
        Wanted a break from blogging and
        decided to start afresh.
        Do come visit.
        When did you start this site?


        Liked by 1 person

      2. That explains it. I noticed you hadn’t been blogging for a while. I like your dark title and gravitas. I’ll take a look at the new blog in a minute.
        I started motheringaddicts about two months back. The other stuff is fun, but it’s the drug issue that matters, and I’m trying to work out where I’m going with it.

        Liked by 1 person

  1. When I send you a Like or comment
    don’t you get the thing from WP
    saying go visit so and so, you might like
    what they do?
    You’re not typing in my site address are you
    .when I send you a comment, can’t you just
    click on my skeleton icon?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes I’m in! The skeleton icon didn’t work, but the link to your post ‘Lucifer’ in the WP email did. I’ve got a crisis going on at the moment – my daughter has nowhere to sleep and if she comes to me I’ll be evicted, because the landlords have banned her, and we have CCVTV, but I’ll get to your blog when I’ve sorted out some blankets to take to her, or whatever I have to do.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. It did, except that, as usual, my comment disappeared. Another blogger has just told me that she found a comment from me in her spam folder – I’d be grateful if you’d check your spam folder and see if my comment is in there.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. My daughter walked back to her dad’s place. She was freezing cold, because she’s very thin and has bad circulation. I rang her several times to make sure she was ok – eight miles isn’t far, but she’s very weak and I was afraid she wouldn’t make it. She reached there about 3 am.
      For your spam folder you go to WP admin>comments, and at the top of the comments page click on the word Spam, between Appoved and Draft.
      Thanks Alan.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Hi Jane. I did as you said about the spam thing,
        and low and behold, there was the comment you
        sent me. What was it doing in there?
        Is it easy now to find my site?

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I don’t know why it was there, but someone told me my comments were going to her spam folder, and I checked with a few other bloggers whose posts I haven’t been able to comment on, and they said my comments were in their spam folders too.
        It seems I forgot to follow your blog, but I just googled it, and now that I’m following I can get to you through my reader. I think the problem is that when I click on the skull or Monochrome nightmares it tries to go to your original site, and I don’t know what you do about that. If anyone else tries to reach you through the comments you make on their site they’ll have the same trouble.
        I’ve noticed when I comment it comes through as being from Making it Write, not my new site, so if I find someone who may be interested in Mothering addicts, and I comment on one of their posts to get their attention, they find Making it Write instead.

        Liked by 1 person

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