Days when the darkest dreams I dreamt when I was small seem as faerie stories to me,
When I, monstrous, loom in the mirror ready to inflict another hurt
Days when my bones, awful, lumbering, heavy things sink so deep into my mattress springs that I cannot move for the weight of them

On these days, if it were not for my sanctuary, I would sleep and sleep till there was no waking-
but oh how lovely my sanctuary is.

It may not be brick, or wood or stone, but my mothers arms are safer than those- I swear.
And no, it has no guard standing watch, but my father is as good as- I know it.

And yes, it is dark outside.
It is so pitch that when I gaze through the window I am scared it might just have swallowed the sun-
But when my brothers are laughing with me,
or my grandparents are loving me,
or when all of these, my most beloved, are simply near to me;
I feel brighter than any star the universe has ever seen.

Blessed am I to dwell where travellers roam,
weary on their aching feet
they sit here, sand between toes, sunburnt scalp and ice-cream hands.

Where lit fires warm content bones, sheltered from storms beyond the panes.
But our storms are never ugly here,
rain dances bout' the cliffs, wind shaking woods, sky full of bruise coloured clouds.

Not neat,
this land is not of order, she is made of wilder stuff;
of 'untamed'- of 'free',
of rolling land and sprawling wood.
Not neat, no, but peace.

I am not now an emotional being.

But if ever in my dreams,  I was to stumble upon
That girl who wore my face when she was
Ten, twelve, fourteen,
I weep.
Taking her in my arms I try to hush her,
as she claws at her belly and screams at the mirror.
Hating herself, as only an innocent can,
wholly and completely

Those holy hours,
Fashioned for lovers

Recipe of contented sighs,
Futures planned in star hushed whispers

But it is I alone who dwells within them,
These lonely hours

Good only for licking wounds,
Or tearing new ones