He smells of fireworks.
Well, now that I think of it- not the explosions
His scent is of that burn that lingers-
I know,
I know that it is acrid,
That when he leaves I will taste it, while it burns my throat.
But isn't it exciting anyway?

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

My days, nervous glances
Worrying for her, endlessly
She does not smile at his name
Now, she cringes at the sound
Each delicious syllable a knife
A paper cut

Words pass her quietly
She covers her ears,
Concentrating only on dissecting
Every opportunity she had
To not ***** up
Every opportunity missed

I watch her, anxious
Hands shaking, grasping
Head hitting pillow,
Mind wandering back to him

Mist drapes itself
Round stoic hills
Whilst hues of delicate bruises
Sugar roses
Watch on, dewy eyed
Frost bitten fields
Kissed by orange streams
Interrupted by knarled hands
Thrown to the air

Trying to flee but tripping,
On the clothes he leaves
Strewn about my bedroom floor.
Reminders of how he drags me in.
Over and over.

Sipping on air he steals
From these lungs.
He coils himself around me,
Hands enclosed around my throat.
Begging me, pleading, stay.

Five more moments, he whispers
sweetly, softly into my hair.
But his words cut like razors
on the soles of these feet,
as I tiptoe from the bed.

He does not force this poison
Past these lips. But oh,
How easy it is to ignore him
At the bottom of a bottle,
At the end of a cigarette.

These paper thin limbs,
flimsy without him now.
I cannot slam doors,
On someone who is forever
Stood on my side of the frame.

I, his melancholy mistress,
Am comfortable only
In the dark shadows he casts,
When his cold arms
Are encircling my waist.

If I drop him,
Surely my own heart of glass
Must shatter?
Tell me, how can I ever look upon a mirror
If he is not there to crack my reflection.