the music was playing so lovely then it found a scratch. found a scratch. found a scratch.
and when it was so lovely
    that music in my head
the wild din, swoosh round about from being a kid
and then, the record found a scratch. a scratch. a scratch.

mom's song she sang to me in her arms was beautiful dreamer. beautiful dreamer.
  scraaaaaaatch.
the song became out of key.
lullaby baby, gonna make you cry. here's auntie schizophrenia.
    we will welcome her into our song, too.
auntie schizie sounds like the scraaaaaaaaatch.
     the scratch in my young mind. in my mind.

i'm bloated with memories.
  words said,
     mistakes made,
wrong choices.
can't dance no more you see: the record is scratched.

no daddy don't look. i'll hide away. hide away.
towels under the door. covered in clothes. shower in fear.
the record scratch again. the record scratch again.
the music once came from riding in his wheelbarrow. carefree. music.
   become a teen and the record scratched.

i dreamed i held August in my arms.
Held her tight and cried into her thick black hair. i held her so tight.
  i miss you.
the record scratched.
it was music once. i thought it would always be there.
   but the record once again scratched.

so now the pills make music. like angels in my brain.
i dreamed God allowed me to hear His Holy choir.
Sounds like nothing else. Music. No scratches anymore. The music is inside.
I wish He'd pluck me out, but He will not.
   He doesn't love me enough to take me in time. and so, the record will scratch.

these pills in my head right now and music again.
    sweet.
  harmony.
       light.
  float.
yesterday they made me shake, sweat, fight my sleep.
he held my shaking body. unsure. he can't know.
  he wants to fix it.
  i keep it hidden.
it will scratch his record and end his music too.

pluck pluck scratch scratch.
the music was playing so lovely then it found a scratch.
found a scratch.
   found a scratch.

It's Sunday.
She's up at 6,
And she's LOUD
Demanding malties, and an apple,
And making Mummy play swords.

I can't even face coffee.

There she is, sword in hand, Sunday smile
(I've got MUMMY!)
My back hurts and I haven't slept
But I must wave this sword and
Pick a crusty something from her hair.

My happy little nightmare,
Child of my heart,
I envy you.
You bounce from bed, and are ready to go,
No subtleties of mood, or inner conflict
And you're years away from back pain,
Or a bad mood caused by lack of sleep.

Last night, between 2 and 4am,
I walked you back to bed a few thousand times
As you cried, and begged to sleep with me.
At least someone wants to.
Daddy snores away, he'll be down around 10
All smiles, and wanting to head to the park.

This is baby morning.
I remember other mornings -
A leisurely coffee, bagels,
An almost pleasant hangover,
The papers, lazy ***.

Baby morning.
Will I ever look back at you
Wistfully, and wish I could return to
Apple demands, sagging *****,
Swords, exhaustion, cuddles, giggles,
Overwhelming love?

I will never now know
If you're as good in bed
As you are in my head.

It's unfortunate
As I will always assume you are
And suspect, therefore

That I can never let you go.

Are all these ******* and tears
A release
A purge
The final stage of grief?
Or are they madness,
Wallowing,
Refusal to let go?

******* THEN tears
And maybe that's the key,
I never cried before at any of those moments
I never felt the need.
I think, that on reflection
This is good,
This is goodbye.

Your soft sniffle
echoes from somewhere
behind you.

You turn around
and look into your eyes.
They aren't hollow yet,
still bright with
childish curiosity.

Naiveté is a beacon in the fog
that your small hands reach for
but instead of light they find
your thin, long, pale fingers.

You hold her hand.

Starlight has weight like water.

With frightened, eager eyes
you look at what you've become.
With hollow eyes you see what
you were.
She wants to grow
up but you want to grow
down, away from the
starry eyes watching you
from the sky.

Don't ******* up there.

The stars don't know a thing about you.
They watch, cold light.
Perhaps light is not the answer.
She flinches, almost to pull away,
but you are not light. Relax.

She is, but you squeeze her hand anyway.
The strange sensation of comforting
yourself,
of really being comforted at all.
She looks at you, questioning.
You tug her hand, pull her close,
your chin on her head.

Hug her, become her,
get her back. Protect her
from herself, protect you
from yourself.

For her sake, your own sake,
you don't want to
scold the sky again.