Poetry Collection: You Were Married When I Met You

Contrary to popular belief ‘the other woman’ isn’t some mythical she-monster with snakes for hair. Neither is she a ‘slut’ or a ‘homewrecker.’ Sometimes she’s just a nursing assistant working 12,5-hour shifts picking up other people’s poop. This is a little book of poetry written by an ‘other woman.’

Praise for ‘You Were Married When I Met You’

Rebecca Rijsdijk’s ‘You Were Married When I Met You’ is not the story of a self-pitying victim or vindictive revenge, but one of evolution and resilience. Her clipped journalistic style reveals the ‘other woman’ as intelligent, empathic, one of us. She is also empowered, unapologetic, visceral. Her words are those of a woman who has given all she can, endured endless pain, to the edge of self-destruction, and knows now that it is finally time to let go. If you have ever experienced the harsh heart-wrenching reality of unrequited love or have been ‘the other woman’ yourself, you will find this experience both relatable and cathartic – the way a hot blade will cauterize a wound. – Sarah Herrin, author of One Thousand Questions and No Good Answers and The Oceanography of Her

You can get your hands on my latest book here.

Bumble / After

i’m out there
collecting men
like pokemon cards

swipe left
swipe right

i raised my standards
since you fucked with me
because i learned
how to fuck myself

at least my vibrator
is an honest lover

you are no longer
something scarce

as matches
keep popping up
like daffodils
in spring time

yes no yes

i keep the
boys in the same jar
as the men

with the lid
carefully placed
on top

to prevent them
from pouring out
before i am
actually
ready

swipe right
swipe left

as you lick
the scars
on your broken

cardiac

tissue

Spotlight

my brother’s
pancreatic tumour
started to bleed
and that friend
i told you about
had a blood pressure of
seventy over twenty

holy shit
i say
even though
i am really tired
and had a shitty shift
and really just want
to go to bed

holy shit

and i think of the musicians
and the actors
and the models
and the influencers
talking about corona as if we are all gonna live like this forever
and their lives are over
because they thrive in the spotlights
and people don’t need them
when they are too busy
just surviving
and then i look at my workmate
and there is no spotlight
but despite the pancreatic cancer
and despite the deadly blood pressure
she is getting ready for a nightshift
at the care home
and i wonder
where her spotlight is
where the cameras are
and where the fans
are hiding

Dying Pixel Dust

i erase your existence
from my phone
by clicking
the trash icon
on each individual
image we took
not building a life
together
but memories
all the same

years worth
of history
destroyed
in seconds

i kiss
no one

look at
no one

love
no one

suffer for
no one

as i rewrite
my story

this time
i am
the leading lady
i always was
without you

as i watch
your smile
reduced
to dying
pixel
dust

The Last Poem I will ever write about You

i wish you all the best
he said
and after that
i never wrote a word
about him again
because too many words
had been spilled on him already

this man

this man that hid behind
being a tortured
individual
daddy issues
wives with breast cancer
certain breast cancer
maybe breast cancer
not really breast cancer
at all
but just a cyst
like the ones that are sticking
to my gut
and are making
my ovaries kiss
until they
burst
and knock me unconscious
in public places
with homeless people
telling me i look worse
than they do

this man
flirting with blond
women in a swedish
furniture store
while i was searching for
a rug and he was
pushing the trolley
because he is so goddamn
charming when you don’t know him
and no one really does
the mexican jesus with
a voice like honey

they make you sound like
a dildo dear

this man
taking pictures of women
half his age
calling it art
like that pervert
terry richardson
and why do they
always have to be
naked

no darling
they are not naked
i just know how to make them
‘look naked’

i can see her goddamned vagina
it’s right fucking there
and do you remember
when you took my portrait
after you told me you wanted
a little piece of me
and you came in your pants
i wonder how many of them
made you come
in your pants
by folding their legs
underneath their pussies
and calling it yo-gah

i told you
i told her i wasn’t coming back
before i went away
to sit on a mountain
to ‘om’ for three months
with selfie sticks
and rumi quotes
and girls in tight leopard leggings

so how come
there’s a picture of your ‘om’
on her fucking instagram

don’t be so dramatic
she came to surprise me
for my birthday

i remind him
i spent four of my six
birthdays
with him
alone

my mother is missing
he says
is this the mother you left
twenty years ago
yes the same one
they found her
in the neighbour’s
house
my heart is truly breaking
and my sister keeps yelling at me
to help her out with the dementia
and you keep yelling at me
that you love me and want to be with me
my wife keeps yelling at me
for all the white lies
i told

i am ashamed to admit
i begged for his time
the time that he lavishly spent
on others

the cleaner at your workplace
sees you more than i ever did

don’t be so dramatic

it’s not you
it’s me
and that
was the only truth
he ever told

Yesterday’s News

i dreamed of fire and smoke
standing in a disappearing room
eaten away by flames

the floors started giving away
when i saw you
slumped in a chair
dead as a doornail
apparently having
started it all

the sparks of destruction
still igniting
from your fingertips

i can feel my lungs
slowly fill with the dust
of what once was
as my throat
starts to burn
and it is then
i realise
there’s no point
in coughing
for i too
am already dead