‘how are you?’ they ask
‘fine, thanks’
I smile. Because my face does that. That’s what it is meant to do. And my outside and inside are not connected any more.
‘do you want to talk about it?’ they ask
‘It’s a lot’
And I watch them wait. See them watch me smile. Watch them try to connect my outside to my insides.
But they can’t do that.
Because I can’t do that.
Sometimes I say the words out loud.
Pluck them out of the blank space inside my head and hurl them out into this normal world.
They are an act of violence.
Dressed in my normal speaking voice.
‘my daughter tried to **** herself’
In the hospital, they called her ‘the overdose in bed 16’
As if the method of it mattered.
As if that was the part that needed healing.
And they ask her why.
And she tells them.
‘He left me.
Without him I have no reason to stay’
And I reach across this endless space and hold her hand.
And I hang on.
And I try not to feel my insides.
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
I woke up this morning and
I had been made blank.
The colour and texture of me erased.
Even the hollow and empty were gone,
and what I have been left with
is this quiet stillness
this seems fine
my life plays out, a vintage home movie in
the distance of my mind, in faded
colours, with muted dialog.
There is an echo of a laugh-track
that does not hold my interest.
I’m not sure if that’s important.
but it seems fine
like my guilt and want and need,
my desperation,
were ropes that bound my ankles
that wrapped around my neck
and I have been cut loose.
to drift away in this quiet stillness
and this seems fine.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
I think it is science, or art, or nature?
maybe there is no difference,
but when it works, it is beautiful.
Not like kittens in a basket,
but like a Mandelbrot set;
intricate, nuanced and perfectly balanced.
it is the balance that is my undoing.
In the beginning I was meant to hold her close.
gentle, warm and welcoming.
until that welcome and warmth reached
all the way inside her.
Like charging a battery for the first time.
but nothing comes from nothing,
and I ran dry.
too soon.
So now she wears my damage
like a wound, an accusation,
a plea.
and I want to make her whole,
but giving feels like punishment.
Like I have to choose; who will get
this oxygen? her or me?
and will everything I have ever be enough?
to fill either of us?
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 6:55 AM UTC
today I took the phone off the hook,
then I wrapped it in a heavy jacket
and hid it in my drawer.
the drawer where I hide my candy.
so, I swapped them.
I let the rich, sweet colours
take my focus and forced the world
to hide beneath my tastebuds
so now the world, the phone and I
do not exist.
for this little while
I think I’ll leave my glasses on my desk today.
I’m not sure I want the
world in focus and this
gives a simple reason for
the pain behind my eyes.
there is no point
in brushing my hair. my lips
are too heavy on
my face, and my eyelids only
seem to bother with every second blink.
or maybe third
I do not really understand
how this numbness feels just like burning.
or why nothingness weighs heavy
like wet wool.
and I don’t really care.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
‘remember’ she said
like it were simple,
painless, clean.
‘why don’t you like to remember?’
and it oozes in, like the stench of rotten flesh
uninvited
too much
too close
too close
too close
and I remember;
I am not allowed to stop this
not now
not then
this flesh of mine belongs to someone else,
again
and I know, this is not the same.
but I am stained with this debasement
and you must suckle from my shame
can you taste it?
That I don’t want this.
Can your newborn eyes see how ugly that is?
and I remember;
how I want to sing hymns to you.
to fill your world with pink and purple sound.
to wrap you whole in clouds and sunshine
I want you to be safe here
and I remember;
how you are bare, defenceless
tender like the flesh of ripened fruit
and mine are not a mother’s hands
because mothering is lush,
endless and unstinting
sincere and welcoming
and I am dry, barren, wrong
miserly and empty
this is not mothering
this fear
this resentment
your need is a question I do not have the answer to,
huge and terrifying,
it will swallow us both whole.
and I remember;
how I want to run,
I want to put you and your hunger
and your greedy ******* want
over there.
To keep space between us.
Because you want more than I have.
Need more than I am.
and the only thing that hurts me more than remembering,
is the idea that you might remember too.
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC
my world is a life boat,
a nursery rhyme construction
of wood and tired paint;
almost safe
almost stable
almost dry
almost real
I have crafted it from pure will
and grip tight with aching fingertips
even as I stare over the edge
at everything I want to know.
Everything I fear.
because the ocean makes no promises,
it is a story told in real time,
destination unknown
and I sip at the flavour of it,
let the rich and briny thickness
of it coat my tongue
and dry crisp against my skin.
And I pretend at understanding
With loving reverence, I curate tales
of its inky black mysteries
and full spectrum shining life,
I watch it flash and froth beneath the surface.
out of reach.
But I have never let it take me whole,
never let the rhythm of it press against my flesh,
never danced with waves from the inside,
never dared to open my eyes in salt water.
And I wonder
if I have resigned myself
to growing old here?
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC
I want to label this wound
with a single word
but I cannot find one that fits
I wanted to call you Father,
but you would not have stood for that
you would have seen my intent,
tasted my defiance.
you understand the power of our names
you scent it in the air,
primal,
an instinctive predator.
Father, would have given me space,
the first step towards an open door
Dad, bound me close
with coarse, abrasive rope
that you called
love and loyalty and family
it would not hurt me, you said
as long as I kept still
so I hid my heartbeat from you
in the steady thrum of others'
because there is safety in a crowd
I offered you Father-in-law
I let you have Grandfather
but I cannot do
what is second nature to you,
I cannot look at family
and see prey
so I ran
I took what I could carry and I fled
I chose my own name for you
I called you no-one
I called you my past
but a letter came today
registered post
and you have signed it
Dad
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 10:56 PM UTC
humanity is a vast palette
many hued and multifaceted
all soft, rough, violent textures
we are slow burning sunset skies
we are roaring, diamond waterfalls,
and whispering heat haze
we are blood stained hands
and gentle, searching lips
we are chipped paint
and red petalled window boxes
we are straining, sweat slicked lust
we are the gossamer silk of an age worn cheek
we are brocade and velvet
we are beard coarse, dusk hued wool
we are furnace forged knives
and blades of dew strung grass
we are broken signs and rotting leaves
and endless, frozen white expanse
me; I am loose woven cotton
I am eighteen percent grey
I am enough.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
I resent apologising for something so central
to who I am.
and that means something,
because apologising for who I am is what I do best
but this part of me does not feel wrong
or ugly
and I do not want to fix it
I watch the world from the outside.
it is not voyeurism,
I do not lurk or creep
or prey upon the world.
I watch, from the edge of others' experience
because the world is beautiful,
even when it’s not
and people are incredible,
even when they’re broken
and I revel in your joy
and I weep for your sorrow
and I will see you
when you take a breath and step towards your fear
when you blank your face and give selflessness in love
I will watch you dance and twirl
and almost feel the wonder in that moment that you do
and perhaps some things can only be seen fully from the outside.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
therapy is hard
Somehow I had not expected that,
I was aware that I am damaged,
broken, not fit for purpose.
But I did not go to therapy expecting to be healed
I went to confess.
to show the world that I understood
that I was not made right
to offer them my shame
pain, when you live in it,
can feel ordinary,
familiar
and when the whole world feels cold
and unsafe
it becomes easy to mistake
familiar for comfortable
and comfortable becomes home
and it is instinctual to head for home,
to search the world for a place
which feels familiar.
a place where you feel you belong
exactly
but I am not purely instinct
and my mind and eyes can see
the filth that I called home for what it is,
mostly
so I give time and money and blood
to learn the differences
but it will mean forever leaving home
and that is harder than I thought.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 8:17 PM UTC