Here I stand
or lie
or sleep.

All the work to get here,
and the feelings feel
embarrassing,
self indulgent.
I want to hide them,
yet they keep returning.

I’ve worked through an ex.
I’ve sorted the mortgage.
Therapy for the trauma
(The trauma! Ridiculous!)
am out the other side…
still navel gazing.

About the rest of it.
The choices
the job
the restlessness.
Likeability, life purpose.

And just now,  
you’ve made me laugh
and laugh and laugh.
Thank you.

Up and down
Listen to your heart
follow the joy and
Supplant negative with
memories of the good.
Tend towards the positive.
Plant that black tar
with flowers that
oxygenate, allow breath,
replenish.

I feel untethered from you.
Unknowable.
Silent, and
behind walls.
There’s mistrust here,
a looking at actions
and finding them wrong.
So, uncertain, I look for more.
You feel this, and adjust your actions.
It must be exhausting,
like a marionette
without a player,
and we’re still quiet.
I’m still so quiet.

My kids can be rude to you
It’s true.
You raise points
that I’m trying to absorb.
Why were feelings pent up
so much
to put me, us,
in this position?
There can’t be
competition.

Hey
where are we?
It’s confusing.
It’s been this way
for a while now.
You feel better,
you let it out.
Me— wrung out.
Emotional tsunami
no clarity for me.
Was that healthy?
Or extremely un-so.
You want time with me.
Ah the irony.
You want quality time?
Ah the angry.
The angry.

White screen
Blue screen
Incessant barrier screen
On screen
Still there screen
Did you really choose that
Over me?

You look like me.
Jolt to the heart.
Arrogantly (I now see)
I had thought he’d never do as well
again.
And yet, you are beautiful
and seem kind.
It arrowed sorrow through
a gap in my armour.
I’d thought it *****-proof.
His best self again
after abandoning me?
I was great too.
I’ve learned new words though,
and I hope you know them too.
Emotional abandonment,
control, choice, trauma.
I’ve grown beyond them, so so far.
Green leaves, blue sky.
You, kindy teacher -
help keep my kids happy please.
I work hard to maximise the good
for them.
And, good luck with the rest, lady.
Not that I’m saying, but —
I wouldn’t recommend.

I realise I’ve avoided this outlet,
this relief from ink and words
because my message isn’t bright enough,
clear enough.
Shiny and polished? Not enough.
‘Not loveable when you’re needy…’ worries the inner me.
Yet here, in this space of all things shared,
there’s no need to pretend.
No fawn response needed here
where it’s the honesty,
the brutal honesty,
that heals.
So, here I am again.
Stuff it.

I feel my strength unfold;
it holds my backbone
straighter,
straightened.

The blustery
wind of emotion
whips back my head and heart.
Anticipated jolt—
and stop.

But start again
slowly brewing
circling this issue
with thorny, prickly needles
persisting in their bite.

My spine is still straight though.
Heart may be sore,
but that strength—
still there, still here.

My little ones
racing through childhood
at a speed that feels breakneck.
I love your singing games,
piercing recorder at breakfast,
letters to Santa in July.
Your violins, tickle fests,
colourful plastic and tiny drawings.
Room service dessert,
toys instead of shoes.
Your hugs, your love.
Gappy teeth, smooth hair.
That you always pull scissors first —
never rock or paper.
Learning, learning, learning.
That we can find play—
with deep belly laughing
for the three of us,
across our ages.

Losing my pallor
my joie de vivre
around us.
Feels like a slow leaching
and a looking at the bones
and we’re trying to add
flesh to them

If we look at our strengths,
and work on them,
and amplify them,
then we’ll find
we’re an amazing team.

I’m a survivor
I just didn’t originally realise
that I was in a war.
So I didn’t recognise my bullet wounds.
Until now.

When I feel echoes
of the theatre of war
it triggers
all the trauma
and those hidden wounds
bleed again.

So I work on survival
A proper job at healing
and strengthening.

For when I forget
and get drawn into pity,
responsibility,
unnecessary accountability.
Again.
He’s narcissistic,
he will take and take
and never be healed.
Don’t forget.

At heart,
it suits him this way.
If he’s not better, then
all attention is on him.
I did enough
I did so much.
Don’t forget.

These trauma responses
that are still arising,
this hyper vigilant stress
at home
when the kids get excited
(don’t get too noisy!)
are the scars.
It was abusive.
No guilt, no more.

Don’t forget.

Tell me your dreams,
float them up high.
I’ll help to propel you
up into that sky.

Purposeful
choices for my time.
Purposeful
choices with my thoughts.
Purposeful
goals for my life.
Let’s herd those
stray, scattergun thoughts
on purpose.

When the abuse doesn’t look like it
then it can’t be recognised
and it parades around
in broad daylight,
in pyjamas with spots instead of stripes,
but no-one is alarmed.
When the abuse doesn’t look like it
the victim goes under
piece by piece
but it is quiet, and she feels so much empathy
and she doesn’t recognise
that she’s taken over.

When those spots look like illness
the abuse is asking for pity
and all of her effort and soul,
with nothing in return
because it doesn’t feel well.
Before she knows it,
she’s adjusted herself,
to manage behaviour, anger and the ‘illness’.

When the abuse doesn’t look like it,
it can be quiet, insidious control and
a gradual, unrecognised ceding of power.
Better not rock the boat,
there’ll be a wall of silence to dance around
for days.
It feels like responsibility, entrapment
but in just having those feelings
she feels so disloyal.

When the abuse is gone
then it takes a long time
to wake up from the stupor
and look with fresh eyes.
To change behaviours,
expect more from the new.

That was a quiet,
sticky,
suffocating,
trap.

Play with forgiveness
Consider it indeed.
Allow it, enable it
and, dear self,
be freed.

You’re emotion-deep,
fatigued,
and another rock
has smashed your way.
You were unfurling
those tendrils of hope
and now—
back in the trenches,
those hospital, chemical,
procedural, trenches.
Back to that holding pattern
when you want to grab life
and shake it,
and adventure it
and laugh with it.
May we be your
uplift, your cloud, your support.
Magnifying your strength,
scaffolding where needed,
helping you lift
to the sunshine, to your future.

Not settled near you lately
Mild humming anxiety
Discomfort inside of me,
fearful of your gravity.

I’m flowing into this
new happy,
so our baggage is
unnecessary.
It’s there of course,
but it’s history.
Be there for them,
not for me.
Don’t pull me down
suffocatingly.
I stay afloat
away from you.

Snippets of happiness
Full rose heads,
chicken sounds and tickles
grins and giggles
on the trampoline.
Playing shops with you,
cuddling close,
cooking food with heart.
Breathing new life
into me.

Kernel of
emotional truth.
You’re very
inconvenient.

Hey you
Why are you losing that employment
Argumentative and driving
People away

Hey me
Why am I taking to heart
That I cared
And I was human
And so fallible

Keep learning, keep positive
Keep the belief
and the soul.

If that was a blast of love
I’d hate to see your hate.

Your blunt, forceful love
comes from fear,
rains in blows,
and leaves me -
smaller, sadder,
reactive—
reeling for equilibrium.

Trust in you
Trust in me
Trust in we
feels more
achievable today,
accessible today,
unforced.
A gentle welling
in my empty torso.
This one that felt cavernous,
echoing, hollow.
Missing
that vital lifeblood,
this swelling of emotion.

Did you know
you go right to the heart of me
when you see, and accept me,
completely?

My trust was so broken,
you’re examining those pieces
and helping me
put them (carefully)
back together.

Turn it off—
the tv.
That noise,
that mindlessness.
It has no place for me,
and I have no place for it,
not anymore.
It reminds me
of endless, empty nights
at opposite ends of the sofa
Now, when I try
I have no patience,
no interest
in those bright, empty lights.
Let me write poetry instead.

I panic, stay..
panic, stay.
Panic, talk about it—
and slowly see the trust rising.
Panic—question.
Waver; and discuss.
I appreciate you
for being steadfast.
This behaviour
is because of a wound,
a recently recognised wound,
that stole my trust
and it takes time
to take it back.

Is it all about the money
The petty money
The meaningful money
The symbolic money, money, money?

The symbol of care
The power
The asking
The giving
Withholding.

The emotions swell.
Bring them down,
get perspective,
breathe.

Actually, it’s all about the
children, children, children.

Explaining the feeling
is a task;
hearing the meaning
is a gift.

This feels like
going to sleep on an argument
because you’re too tired.
I’m tired too, but
the promise was
to never, ever do that.

I love that you always want me,
it eases a sore that is deep.
Should it be this way -
is it healthy?
Reassured desirability.
Or am hiding from healing the grief.

Let me be free
from your emotional
highjackery.

From your
manipulation
of my life's situation.

Playing hostage --
is the price of your stability
the loss of my positivity?

This is a game of
important odds.
Our girls are not the prize
but the precious treasure
to protect.

Get yourself together
there can be no losers.

What is this stress
making my belly churn
my skin’s itchiness,
my pulse race?

Could it be from
the financial separation,
kids, career,
general obligation?

New starter to train,
bookweek costume,
book balancing,
bithday cake?

Oh wait, I see—
I can do these things,
all of these things,
with a smile and a grin.

It’s you, ex man (child) of mine
looking lost
that unravels me
too easily.

Thank you
for cooking me dinner,
for sending me home with lunch for tomorrow.
For showing your love
that way.

Thank you
for the unfailing positivity;
positive reinforcement
of all of my progress —
my determined, honest progress,
in its mottled glory.

Thank you for the listening ear,
warm arms, big heart.
For takeout runs and chocolate.
For showing love and care
in all the ways.

So, we signed on the line,
undid ourselves
a little more.

Each page autographed
in the matching spaces
we don’t share anymore.

The burst of sadness
came unexpectedly,
I’d been expecting this day after all.

Of course it makes sense
to grieve history’s dust
and that we succumbed to the fall.

When you saw me
in the whole of my world,
as mother, daughter,
I felt deeply vulnerable.

When I became a mother,
a role that I cherish,
my husband got me mixed up with his own,
never touched,
emotionally vacated.

The thing is -
I’m also a woman.
A live, vibrant, loving woman.
A tactile, ready to laugh,
always trying, independent, woman.
And you see me.
What a relief.

You’re connecting with my children
oh what a lovely sight.
Laughing together,
holding hands,
cooking, being.
It both warms and breaks
my heart.

Warm for the care and instant rapport;
the light in your eyes - you’re in love again.
Sad that they’re hungry for it;
clamouring for it;
and that it didn’t happen
in the family unit.

Is there more to lose
or more to win
now that the feelings
are deepening?

New insecurity
negates surety.
Must take time to find
that light in me.

If my heart is an *****
that can be comparmentalised,
then the part for my children
is vibrant, lush, pulsing with life.

The part for adult love
was cracked, parched, a desert
that felt deserted,
and stumbled to its limit.

It feels like that part
is slowly rehydrating
but there’s such a lot to refill.

Why is it that
your happiness
seems inversely proportional
to mine?

Why is it that
your happiness
seems, perversely, disproportional
to mine?

But when we were together,
your lack of happiness
consumed all of mine.

Little steps at life,
in the right direction.
Thinking about big pictures,
thinking further than this day.

Little steps at living,
joy in smallest corners.
Opening up my vista,
broad horizon to explore.

I could run away
from the words you might say.
Triggering me into flight
if they’re not phrased
quite right.

Here’s my trauma
bubbling up.
Here’s this new instinct —
now that we’re close up.

I see my fear
and vulnerability.
I also see strength here
keeping life steady.

So the next step
is to talk it through with you.
Listen to both sides
see what good that can do.

Listen to instinct
and listen to truth
Listen to heart song
rather than be aloof.

Little baby on a hill,
beautiful and so new still.
What will you be when you grow up?
This world’s your oyster,
this life’s your oyster.
Oh wait - it is for me too :)