Your beckoning finger like curling ribbon
Its pained sharp edge beneath the shining
binding me to a catch-22 with gnarly roots;
To paternal blue pierce and maternal chin –
eyes peeping over the creeping cords
pinning me down to the tow-line
where I fit and flinch to be free.
To be me.

Her laugh broke the window pane -
shards of glass pouring like rain,
the sound of shattering safety made her blood run cold
as she clung to disintegrating silence.

Grains of silent-self
pricking the backs of her eyes until tears streamed down her cheeks
wiping fiction from flesh, eyes turned to the floor
so you won't see the sadness where the sparkle should be.
Could be.
Would be.
Maybe.

She feels the barbed wire noose around her tongue loosen,
unfurling its razor sharp grip on her throat
to the melody of the sweet small voice singing soothing songs
seducing her to speak.

Speak.
The words fall clumsily from her lips like ***** clattering plates
splattering waste on wall and doors
leaving a mess that cannot be swept
nor hidden under the carpet or clothes.
"Please. Please.".

She feels eyes burning into naked-self
declaring the truth as if it had the strength to stand,
to bear the weight of shame from times that should remain untold,
but she told.
"Look away. Please. Don’t look at me,
I need you not to look at me, please please please".

She squirms beneath the squirming,
the crawling cascade of bugs under her skin,
in her-self, ***** girl -
ankles twisting, fingers bending, hands trembling,
heart beating, breath quickening, mouth begging
"please please don’t look at me".

The kiss to be seen, breaks like a scream
on the back of a lifetime playing dead,
choking back the words left unsaid,
hiding scars of the wounds that once bled.  

Wounds that call from beneath layers of scar tissue,
a symphony of whispering simpering bacteria
recalling the filthy mire imploding from the pyre;
seal after seal broken leaving her less beauty, more beast.  
Her pleas broke the threshold,
falling forward, hands and knees grinding into twigs and leaves,
his grip so thick on her hair
that he heaves out a scream from the depths of her bowels,
ripping through tension and fear
to gift a mark, a shame, a name that won’t disappear –
“Don’t look at me”.  

They call it ******
as if you could name a pain that seared so deep it
drew a blood that would take a week to heal
and a ***** that would never stop rising.  

Her arms buckled under the weight of shame,
of blame, of every screaming name he seethed into her sullied flesh,
with every wavering breath she breathed – “please don’t look at me”.  

His hands grip beneath her hips
nails biting into aching, seeping flesh, filling her pores with
more, more, more.  

Baths - a thing of the past,
water hot, rusted and greying with the rot that lies on her,
with the putrid knot that lies in her.  
“I’m so ashamed.”

Her exhaustion broke her human-ness –
body depleted from repeated invasion that she couldn’t stop,
that he wouldn’t stop -
as forced kisses stole breath,
focus lost and a nip to his tongue would cost a choke-hold to blur the world,
spit on her face hurled with the venom of an injured python.  

Cold, hard, scraping against skin trying to get in –
“Please.” –
bugs crawling, cascading, invading,
fighting my womb, biting my flesh raw, boring into my blood
turning life force to mud and self separated from beautiful source.  

I felt his thrill at my hip.
“Please don’t ...
Is it masochism to share the most humiliating, hurt or is it healthy?”
*
Her mouth broke -
alive with sensations and nerves that serve
to taste to feel, to flex a tongue to sing to speak to eat.  
He drew her to her knees,
with greater and greater ease
to penetrate perception with ******* till her jaw ached and strained,
drained, choking back the spoils of man,
feeling panic as her stomach recoils vomiting shame.

And then you're sleeping -
purring kitten curled in pink DMs
all crumpled kisses and angel hair
caught in a dream catcher web.

My heart rests from braying helpless fury against my ribs
from bruising sinew and self
pouring frustration through my veins
in the ache of wanting to make it better.

I'm tracing history, yours and mine in the contours of your face.
Ballerina fingers shimmer in the laugh lines that are you.
My breath bowing to scars of battles that made you,
head cocked in awe of the woman you are.

my heart whispers a familiar promise - together.

And she takes the book waiting on the shelf,
smelling of milk, toothpaste and goodnight kisses,
it's pages cracked, worn thin with birthday wishes,
wearing wrinkles wizened by the layers of fingerprints
that traced the silk of mama's voice on every word.

She turns to find him all tucked up in bed,
head cushioned by a mop of curly hair,
arms clutching tight a tattered teddy bear.
His sleepy eyes draw her to his side
and she leans in another once upon a time.

Her voice kisses the curve of every word,
calling to life a world she has to see,
moulding reality to what it ought to be;
a place with swings, slides and just five minutes more ,
sighs breathed to birth a need held deep inside.

A land where all the games are fair,
with candy houses but no cavities in sight,
where all evil is banished by the light.
The winds of time are soothed and still
listening to the clicks of a clock that never stops ticking.

Her child's eyes flutter to dance in dreams of his own
and the bedtime lies shatter behind her eyes.
It's not her son longing for a land where no one dies.
Children are borne of pixie dust and shooting stars
to a world of wonder built for each alone .

Once upon a time is a prayer whispered by mama's at night
to restrain the hurts and horrors of the earth
with the soul wrenching fear she's felt since she gave birth.
See she has to believe in forever and a day
for her love for her son is growing all the while.

She has to believe in love and life and laughter.
She has to hold close the hope of
happily
ever
after.

A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -

eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -

a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -

her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -

that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.

and the bus doors open just the same

every day is beautiful in its own way
with rain and bows and sunlight shoots
a flick book show as she puts down roots
riding through a magic land, unicorn mane in her hands
with the glitter of another day shining on her skin

stirring cinnamon porridge in the window seat
every syllable uniform, pressed and neat
shiny black shoes upon her feet
and the bus doors open just the same

every day a crisp fresh new page
with colour splashes dropping all around
a crescendo of new sights and sounds
dancing through the middle of a dream
with the taste of satisfaction on her tongue

stepping the same cracks in her cigarette break
the lines on her face begin to ache
she's wondering if she's really awake
and the bus doors open just the same

every night is a shadow of the night before
with thought puzzles building the road back home
the tripping rhythm of another poem
riding the track mindlessly
as her nostrils fill with the same stale stench

in her own time she's all lost at sea
boiling up for another cup of tea
she's so sick of her own company
and the bus doors open just the same

And tomorrow will be beautiful in its own way
and the bus doors open just the same.

There's a time in  the morning
when the hidden sun is stirring to rise
as the bottoms of boats sink in first water.
Stillness.
Empty roads and empty pavement.
Cobbles kissed with frost
sparkling diamond dew.
The waves rise and crash
like crowds of cheering children
stampeeding into Narnia or Lilliput.

In the still of morning sands
there are no thoughts
only peaceful fancy
fantasy flights on the back of sea frett
or beneath the murky grey/navy foam-frilled ocean.
This world is mine
every grain of sand
every footprint mine
every inch of fabric green draped;
every exhale turned winter wisp laced
with the magic of endless horizons.