the blood of my mother is sweet.
but the blood of my father is sour.

no wonder i am certain of nothing.
even my blood does not know
how it should taste.

i'm inviting Time inside.
offering a seat;
a room in my house so it can unpack its things.
letting It live with me
until all this tension i feel is relieved.

we're spending moments together (intentionally):
a song of silence sung during the sweet sunrise,
a solemn sulk just before bed.
i'll permit It sit with me.
let It remind me that there is so much left.

it'll wrap Its arms tightly around me;
pat my back in rhythmic beats that once felt cruel, but which now reduce me to infancy.
offer me a tissue in the shape of
'the right person at the right time.'
and for a moment, in its embrace
i find solace.

because there really is so much of it left.

because you are not dying.
(no, not yet.)
and it will be there in the morning,
your life is no less than palimpsest.

so i'm welcoming It in,
offering it a drink.
tea brewed long, but not bitter.
i refuse to live a life
with the string wrapped around the handle.
because seeping and stewing are not the same.

i got a paper cut
and i picked at it
until its corpse
become a permanent headstone
on my skin.

you hurt me,
and i picked at it
until it began to scar,
until it began to
tighten the skin.

i will never be able to escape the ache of you.
never be able to revive myself.
or be able to relieve the pain of the skin pulling.

but i will always try to heal it,
even if it is no use.

sometimes
the moments we steal
are not enough
to make us forget
that life is heavy.

sometimes
the moments we steal
are not enough
to make us fall in love
with life again.

let them love you this way:

with long drives to far away destinations
with the sole purpose of finding a beach
that feels right underfoot.

with car park crying
and laughing and debriefs
that echo long into the night.

with celebratory drinks
and pub feeds
and sometimes the odd fancy dinner.

with mid week check ins and soup left on door steps
messages of poems and songs that make them think of you
(i need you to know that you deserve to be thought of)

with hands soaked wet
by dishes you didn’t want to wash
and with blankets pulled up to chins.

let them love you this way.  
softly and in all the ways that count.
all they ways you haven’t been loved before.

life moves,
and people leave.

my skin will stretch
and my mind will learn.

and maybe it takes time,

but maybe i don’t want to wait,
maybe i don’t have time to waste.

i try to be soft
but it translates to fury.

i try to be water
but i am ice.

the closest i'll ever be to snow
is a hail storm.