i like to think i /feel/ my emotions
but every time i sit to write i feel my heartbeat
quicken and rise to my throat
like a helium-filled boulder
what am i afraid to reveal to myself?
when I am ill I do not puke
I spew poetry
like a lady
I read you the children's storybooks that your parents sold
and buy you marbles like your old collection
(that one day was no longer there) and
we will sit craning our necks, healing our hearts
we can do arts and crafts projects
(and this time they will be hung up on the fridge)
and I'll double check your room for monsters
and your music box for pills
you have been compressed, ashamedly
for far too long
scoffed at and eyes rolled
if heads do
you are free now, protected and proud
you are safe and sound
join hands, and know that
these new planes of vulnerability keep you strong.
there is beauty in recognising that I am still the sapling I referred to myself as in my poetry of three Aprils ago, horrified
I will continue to love those out of reach
continue to get my heartbroken
I will perpetually and paradoxically be "too old" and "too young"
but most of all, I will continue to grow.
My mother first wrote it
on my birth cert
by street name, by nature.
“You shouldn’t do that,
you’re no race horse.”
Then why am I running, running
carrying little men who kick me.
Filling the hole won’t fill me.
If I eat sugar, orange candy
and lots of honey
I won’t hear the boys be mean to me.
I wonder when it was that we really met
was it when he first lied to me
or the time I tried to jump out the two story window at 5 years old
was it when I first felt the bugs crawl beneath my skin as you touched me
no longer sparks flying but an electrocution without the quick death
perhaps when my dad spat that he was ashamed of me
and my mum said he wanted me out of his sight
off of his site
“get off of those sites”
when I locked myself in the shed at 6
I screamed and cried
not wolf, but Rapunzel
climb up my hair, rip it out of my head and
now it is 12 years later and I don’t cry to be let out
I cry to be let gogh
and drink paint and drink paint andrink p ain’t
if only you were looked after
grin penetrating my mind and your touch - your grab - sewn into my side
sinking as a summer without fin(n)s drowning in your baby blues,
and fooling myself into early christmas hollyboughs? go-lightly on me, oh please!
A ****** bisou beneath mistletoe
with curled toes and auroral, idolising eyes
overall, decriminalising eyes
Annie excuse at (H)all to see you and
-vive (mes soins, votre sécurité)
-kindle (the ignition to my inspiration)
-pair (poles apart)
a pair in the most offensive of ways
my only vice is cleansing yours
but your sins or psyche?
am i wounded or warming?
my truly fatal frailty
Women Who Love Too Much
Book by Robin Norwood