Collective breath catches in the stalls,
slumber fails to take its place in time.
A fall from place to chaos
leaves all the world wanting for a reason;
for direction in the midst of this waning
of the reigning control of the conductor.
Such a careful composition,
to hold a position to be one of them.
And yet, mere moments gather a chorus;
a cacophony of freedom
of being
to crack away the chaining,
the tiniest twinkle of the cage door a jar -
such liberty.
And the fight waits in the wings.
But oh this fluid reality,
a magnificent rainbow,
a glistening roaring waterfall
a melody sung sweet of its own accord.
The conductor listens
and breath catches in the stalls.

The crack across the glass screen calling time
Chimes out the screeching to a halt.
A full stop.
The end
of another
fallen
friend.
Sweet suicide?
I call it the theft, that left my heart bereft
My life without the shape and texture of a love
That only one could give.
And a pain that can never be soothed
And a wound that can never be healed
And a reality that was never more clear than in these times
In the lingering of this tongue on trite futile lines
Because these acts that took those lives from mine
are the smorgasbord from which I will commit my crime.
And the days will be numerous between this day and then
But the measure of life, is when I say when.

Still
A pregnant pause
Breath bated at thirteen
No line, check again, no line, check again, no line
And breathe
Just breathe through your nose it’s all fine
And seethe
***** rising, eyes streaming, toilet splatter splash back
Lack of self-worth self-respect at the end of a fist smack
My mouth bled from the depths of my womanhood
Then stopped.

And I was only thirteen
And then the doctor tells me I'm only sixteen
Then only eighteen, twenty one, twenty five, twenty eight
And the weight of dismissal in the onlys
Is the heaviness of my shameful heart.

Still
A pregnant pause
Breath – shallow, quickens
as the doctor, in his superior tongue tells me I have a shot in hell
Hell – that’s what this is
A pit of horrors where a man who spread me wide, looked inside and saw nothing
Dried his hands, and sent me on my way
to drown in a sea of bumps and gurgling infants to see a man who tells me
fertility treatments have improved.

Still
A pregnant pause
Swallowing Clomid to the tune of the patter of stomach cramps
And the dampening of hot flashes searing through my empty *******.
Then came two laparoscopies - and a new suction of hope from my heart
Teeth bared to the penetrating needle of the appropriately named Pregnyl
Poured into my body till I ache and bloat.
Nothing positive to note so he takes the Follistim and pushes it in
Till the weight of reality anchors in to my hips and spreads
Taking hold of my lungs, rasping my breath
And I call time.

Still
A pregnant pause
tears abruptly erupt whilst singing nursery rhymes to my nephew
I hand him to my mother and pour out the truth.
She says nothing.
She then tells me she has a friend whose niece’s best friend was infertile
And then one day BAM pregnant.
And there was no discussion only false hope.
As friend after friend tells me of some distant hopeless case that came good.
And my (insert obscure relation here) couldn’t have children but then
BAM a boy
BAM a girl
BAM twins
BAM triplets
BAM a ******* maternity ward filled with unlikely sprogs.
And still

A pregnant pause
A crushing aching longing that beats in rhythm with my heart
A longing that cannot be told as it is, for what it is
Because what it is, is what it is.

You ask me to enter to the tilt of your head towards the computer screen
and see, in two words my definition -
bipolar disorder.

You do not look at me, just talk at me
medication? last relapse? severity of episodes?
You count failings, the moments in which I have lost my mind
and you reproach me for them.
You, as you two-finger-type a cold clinical echo of me,
I, on command, recite the past transgressions of my sanity
and you have me – three inches tall on my knees,
in a disease that thrice almost cost me my life
and in your Jobsworth view you tell me I will get ill,
as if this weren't a fact I fight and fear daily.
You with your tunic, blue, cold as your indifference,
announce this, as if calling time -
self-important, unfeeling, with one eye on your watch.

And I smile at you apologetically,
honestly offering up my mindfulness, yoga, medication compliance,
self awareness, begrudged reliance on those I love to wave the red flag
if the waters I get into are too deep.
You are curt with your nod - as if all this is folly between now and the inevitable.
My recovery, my striding, my passion and profession -
All folly.
You are doing the last offices on quick time
because your time is precious and short
and not to be wasted on crazy dreamers with barely a shot in hell

But even with every mental regression, psychotic expression
manic obsession and abyss of depression -
still, still, the world needs more of mes and much less of yous.
So make your disclaimer and write your reports
I'll chant, share the truth in the streets and courts

You can count the rise and fall of my chest,
cut me down the middle, look with interest,
count concentric rings around my heart stressed
with every beat.
But the life I live cannot be undressed

Nor can it be stretched, to stand ***** to rule,
from the cotton blue plaid and scuffed shoes of school,
to the ale-stained cruel brute who made a fool
like me deplete.
This life, nothing more or less than spirit and tool.

My warrior heart was not birthed but braved.
My best qualities were no prize for being well behaved
but a treasure unearthed with a plaque engraved
for she who will defeat
because the life I live is the life that I saved.

She thought that no one would come.
Everyone's someone was there
laden with sweet kisses so craved.
She felt his gaze on her back,
gentle warm strokes like the sun.
She had seen him in the night,
longing's whisper brought to life
an image her heart had saved.
She heard him call out her name
felt her lungs draw fresh breath
and her tears kiss her pale cheeks.

He thought he'd never get there.
His body trembles and aches
underneath the mask he weaves.
He draws her into his chest
kissing the top of her head
breathing in golden blessings.
Every pretense leaves him then.
He feels her spirit in his bones.
He holds her tighter, closer,
feeling familiar pain pangs,
as fears' tears stream down his face.

They thought more of each other
choosing not to dwell on self
but to give rather than to receive.
Fingers tracing round faces.
Eyes locked dancing together.
Hospital stench, ****** sheets
fade into wedding vow fabric
made clean by a lifetime's love.
Wander, wander, wandering
and though neither knows to where
shared is a love that knows all.

There is a place inside my mind
where flower petals twist and wind
a quilt to softly bind
five children borne of hope and love;
my precious ones growing free of
the lows and limits of this life -
from shameful shadows roaming rife.
Mothers dream clings to fragments of normality
to ease the longing smacks cracks in her sanity.

She taught each child to hear the ocean through shells;
and yet none were ever more than wasted cells.
She sang them lullabies from a rocking chair;
and yet the womb was stripped bare, no children there.
Her love for them so strongly she expressed
and told them of the beauty they possessed;
yet despite that full heart, she was not blessed.
She gave the kind of kisses to chase their fears away;
yet her fearful heart pangs from the longing everyday.
She could do a job where the work is never done;
yet she'll never here the call she longs to hear -
Mum.

The pain and the sorrow that I write of,
is not borne of pity, but borne out of love.