Carte Blanche

Three tails of womanhood

Subbacultcha people are creatives, and we thought it was about time we started sharing some of their work. Every month we ask one of our members to create; a text, a photo shoot, a video, a poem, a story. We give them the freedom to make something of their liking, and we provide a canvas for sharing it, right here. First up is Weronika Zalewska, who, just two months ago, took over a room and SUBBA membership when she moved to Belgium.

Her poetic story Three tails of womanhood recounts that which we drag inside of ourselves; a story on gender and its status within the culture we were born into. It’s autobiographical, abstract, and connects us to the women of the Universe, the streets, the jungles, the rivers and their own moments of weight(lessness). Read on for a contemplation on the symbolic time of female confessions, allowing us to unfold in front of each other and providing us with a mirror to reflect upon experiences of femininity.

Part III
The other woman


You were always a tool
a fruit to squeeze
a mirror they breathed on not to reflect upon sins
that made them into dogs
though with roofs over their heads
sealed enough to damp their barks
for uncountable years.

You didn’t cry
always opened your eyes wider to let the dust in
on and on
though they made you into a giant that doubled its size after giving birth
a monstrous tool that transmitted their seeds of vulnerability
not so small though they liked to see them as lice on their uniforms
nearly invisible.

Them, always in attempt to close her mouth like a damp broken umbrella
that just didn’t go into the small shape
you could grasp in a hand
or keep hidden away for occasion
as it gave black skies and thunders
that for some looked like disabled jaws or wheelchairs of loneliness
though they could lose you an eye with the right move
however thin
even when rusted

You are a swollen breast that nobody no more wants to see
and the public shouts of train station when it’s time to milk.

You keep your eye open
when they tell you you cannot own your body
and these threats of stretchmarks that go on as a golden threat of pain
on a bitter witness of men’s world
a body
an ass that wants to be slapped
from a wrinkle-free behind that can escape age, an ugly face
or a character
a jew on salt, a too slow response
a good wife, neither.



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