Morning light streams in through the window panes
Golden, like the hair of your baby boy
When he first came into this world.

Afternoon light streams in through your window panes
Bright, like the eyes of you darling boy when he first realized
He could speak.

Evening light streams in through your window panes
Red-gold, like the flames your boy uses to
Light up a cigarette.

Night outside the home's window panes
Dark, like your son's eyes when he pretends
He doesn't know who you are

Dawn light streams in through the hospice's window panes
Muted, like your baby boy's expression
When he learns to love again
(But it is too late)

Ring-a-ring o' roses
A pocket full of problems
A scar here! A meal there!
We all fall


Down.

My dance pants of long ago
Were like a second skin to me.
Fingertips trace the faded pattern;
Affirmation, that yes,
Like a mature rattlesnake
This skin that has been moulted
Once belonged so rightly to me.
A perfect fit.

I have outgrown these, now,
My dance pants of long ago.
My fingers yearn to try them on again;
To feel the smooth fabric cling to my thighs
To jump about in them;
Twist;
Laugh;
Love again.

I try them on.

do you remember how you felt
when you were a little kid
and you discovered a trick, a life shortcut
like closing your eyes when you prayed into the cup of your hands
and you weren’t sure if the adults knew it
but you decided to tell them anyway?
you felt brave and proud of yourself
for figuring it out
and very smart too-
but the adults already knew it
and you feel so hurt and stupid
and angry
and
i want to go back to the moment
just before i told the adults
and felt brave and proud of myself
for figuring it out
and very smart too-
and not knowing of the things to come.

You care too much for me
And people call me a *****
But I call this
Self-defense
And I shall honour my younger, past self
Who never wanted to hurt
and be hurt
And be like those girls
Crippled by emotions
Whose love was their downfall
I am sad and I push people away
Please,
Let me push you away

I write words and words and words
all about you
I pretend that you will read them
Though I know you won't.
If you do- I am sorry.
If you don't- I am sorry that I am.
Please, don't give me another chance.
(Lies, all of them.)

and all those secrets we couldn’t keep
they buzzed around like bees
like bees
(i say we but it is just in fact,
you)

the cigarette smoke we couldn’t shake
choked our lungs,
overwhelmed our days
(i say our but it is just in fact,
me)

scars we couldn’t rid
stained our sleeves
our sleeves
(i say we but it is just in fact,
you)

the girl down the road sold her love
and Nicholas never liked chocolate
so I bought him a lolly
when he came over to visit
me and my parrot
Alicia
and my dog
Kenneth
named after the children who jumped
from the bridge I always passed
to and from from work
the train was a putrid colour
with putrid smells
and the hippie who sat across from me
wore crosses around his ankles
his name was Jim
and in winters when it was cold
he would offer me a Styrofoam cup of tea
from the bakery three stops before mine
and the orange of the train wouldn’t look so putrid anymore
and I scuffed my shoes on the cobblestones
and ignored the lineouleum stains
and waited for spring
to rebirth flowers I would pick (illegally) again

do you know
of the bones that grow cold in
the spring?

kelly didn’t eat because everyone at her school called her fat.

have you seen
the cardigan sleeves
that cover patricia’s skin?

she cuts because she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

and do you know
bruised knuckles
that shoved food up my throat
as I retched over in the toiletbowl?

No.

You do not.

I default
to
sentiment
when he isn’t looking
(I admire the curve of his
jaw
the slant of his eyelashes
the muddied footsteps of a troop of freckles across the
bridge of his
nose.)

He kisses me gently
And I push back
fiercer
unyielding .
(His lips are red like
the candy
he buys me on
valentine’s.)

There are fights
(shouts, screams, throwing of things)
but he never raises a hand
or does more than look hurt.
I pray for him to do just the opposite
of that
(bruises and cries and
promises?threats? of goodbyes) but he doesn’t.

Hurt me, I want to tell him.

Hurt me, and you will never have to know me
(and how I steal gum from the shop
of my before-bed rituals
of my illegible handwriting)

Hurt me, and I will have to stay away from you
(and not get my heart broken
shattered like glass
tattered like the afghan bedspread we share)

when I was a child
I would
wake up
in the middle of the night
and creep to the bathroom
to read a book under its yellow light

my mama slapped me and said
that I should go to bed
she took my book away.

when I was more grown
I would
wake up
to fetch my blade
hurry to the bathroom
to paint ladders red.

the girls at
school
laughed
at me.
they wrinkled their noses like
I was
****
and said I wanted
attention.

when I was married
I would
nudge awake
my girl and
kiss her *******
under the spray of water
under the lull
of love.

she left me, two years later
for another
woman
with bigger
*******.

when I was old
I woke up
and went
to the bathroom
except my legs were
weak
and my grip on the
sink
did not suffice
so I saw my blood drip.


I heard the doctors say I wouldn’t make it.


I didn’t.

rose had a jar of lime marmalade

and her grandmother told her not to put it in her hair

(she was only five, with an innate curiosity;

still, it ended up everywhere)

her sister kate made orange marmalade

(it amused her to know that rhymed)

kate was nine, and a big girl now

she used her marmalade on her bread-

where was the fun in that?

he paints me
reading a book in my faded nightie
lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair
huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by
he never lets me see them.

i write of him
padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and
blue plaid boxers
thanking the people who buy his paintings
wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt
saving the world
i never let him read them.

we share
a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t
know how to cook
bookshelves that line our every wall
snapshots of the city, framed in matte black
wood and macaroni, in the hall
we don’t invite people over.

our parents
don’t send christmas cards anymore
stopped paying for university tuition
and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we
aren’t allowed to see

(but helen sends pictures in the mail)


they can’t take away our love.

they tell me I can have the world
if I would have their beliefs
they tell me I will not hurt
if I follow them mindlessly
they tell me such lies
I listen

And when I say I love you
I love you
I love you,
I wonder if you can hear the echoes behind my words:
I’ll wreck you,
I’ll wreck you,
*I’ll wreck you

there are
cracks
in the pavement,
this long winding grey slab
of asphalt
and heat
and a thousand sweaty footsteps
it is far still to my house
and I wonder why
pavements cannot be shorter.

The trials and tribulations of a broken heart
Will be encountered by everyone
But Augustus Waters once said you could choose
Who would break yours
And if you were to tell me I was stupid
To listen to advice from a fictional character;
Let me tell you that I had it figured out even before
reading the book.

I do not wish to find love, or even attempt relationships
Because I know myself best
And myself is a cruel person.
I do not wish ill upon another
In the form of my presence in their life.
And I do not wish to be hurt by them as well
Because as cruel as I am , I am a passionate, sensitive person.
I cry over losing fictional characters;
I do not wish to know how it is like to cry over people.
At the very least, I could relive my times with my fictional characters;
I could open page one again, or being the first episode all over.
But, I cannot relive my times and do as such with real, tangible people,
And I do not choose to get hurt by them.
And that is why
I am not brave.