I never knew the wall of silence was you protecting us from what you went through

I never knew you not wanting to help me with my homework was your inability to read and write

I didn’t know the drink was your way of sounding out the voices

I didn’t know your prejudice was a result of you quitting school at thirteen and having to provide for your brothers and sisters

You never said much, faded into the sofa you slept on for your last fifteen years

I only realised after, that your odd comical moments were your way of saying sorry for being serious all the time

We called you the quiet man, it wasn’t so quiet up there, was it, Dad?

I now know it wasn’t me, us and them

And I now understand your rage whenever anyone had the nerve to use the word ******* around you and the way your body would shudder and catapult you into your mute state

Your automatic drill sergeant bellow that time I accidentally fell down the stairs

The odd tenner you’d slide into my hand on the quiet for pocket money when I knew that was the only money you had in the world

That pained look you had in your face at us judging you and you not being able to articulate the reason why you would be violent as you didn’t know why

Your gripe with the neighbours that consumed you, that made you want to do unspeakable things

Your feelings of loneliness, hopelessness, self loathing and misunderstandings in a home full of life, laughter and growth that you were unable to get involved in and embrace

I wasn’t there for you, the last few weeks, even when you were in hospital, I put my lust, my education, me first

I am just so grateful that my intuition kicked in on your last day here, I just knew I had to get that bus to see you

We didn’t speak for four hours, not a word passed but I listened to you take your last breaths and tell the dog “get down, I haven’t got it in me”

You left your last mark in the brushstrokes of paint on the walls in the back garden

Brushstrokes which were wavy, imperfect, rough around the edges but beautiful. Just like you, Dad

“Butterfly skin” they said.
2 words that shook me and tipped me into a dark depression.
My Margot, my special.. special.. don’t like that word.
All I know is that my life would never be the same again.
Parenthood, the hardest job in the world just tripled in weight.
Urgh, how selfish.

I couldn’t pull myself out of it.
I started a list, all the things she wouldn’t be able to do or would need support with...

Applying make up
Shaving her legs
Carrying heavy shopping bags
Running in the rain. Running in general
Ballet lessons
Tattoos and piercings
Skipping a bath for a couple of nights
Camping
Athletics
Wearing high heels
Intimacy, would she be able to... start a family?

And then I thought of all the...

Confused looks
Judgements from outsiders
Abuse?
Having to explain myself
Not going out or taking her out
Not being a good Mum
The teasing, bullying, the blame.

I’m comforted by these 4 walls. Our routine.

I run her an antiseptic bath, wash her, dry her and pat her down gently, apply her steroid cream, moisturise her, apply barrier cream, wrap her in her zinc dressings, cut her clinifast dressings to size and put them on her and then dress her in her suits. Where’s the time for adventure?
No, maintaining her skin and her health is the priority.

Just about getting by and the confidence to get her out and then the one time you venture out, “What’s that on her face? Do you know what works wonders? Coconut butter. My work mate’s Auntie’s daughter’s friend used it and it disappeared, no joke” and all I can think about through my assassin’s smile is carving off this nitwit’s skin and lobbing a jar of coconut butter at her ignorant face.

No you don’t ******* get it, it’s not eczema and yes she could have had it worse but can I just wallow in my own selfish bubble for a minute?

Should I just remove myself from her life so someone stronger can step in, man up and deal with this? Stop being stupid!

The “safe” bubble deforms, another gift from the mutation she inherited from me. It no longer has sides to **** and push, just a swamp of black.

Then one dark period, it came to me.

How about I change my list and write down everything she can do easily without me?

She makes me smile on cue
She never lets her condition get to her
She is as bright as a button and educates me daily
She is bossy beyond belief, if I ever get sidetracked with me drowning in my narcissism, she reminds me what to do and when to do it
She is beautiful and I mean breathtakingly beautiful
Her laugh, the kind of laugh where you know she’s been around many more years then the mere 4 she’s graced us with
She has the confidence to strike up a conversation with just about anybody
She slips and falls but after the initial trauma, she gets up and keeps going
She senses my neuroses and makes me laugh by pulling funny faces

It’s through thinking of these things that I realise that if anything or anyone tries to take any of these most natural things away from her, I will be here. I have to be here. And all of this extra time I have to spend looking after her is a blessing. I don’t have to spend extra time with her, I get to spend this time with her.

She’s... we’re going to be ok.


Emma Stewart

Rooted to the spot
As they take their *** shots
All none of them

Just the barrage of abuse from within

We curtseyed away and disinfected the air with our apologies

My Dad seethed;
opportunities lost of relieving the torment

It took hours
But we patched him back together
The only way we knew how..

With caution, and warmth shielding him.. bringing him home

Our brothers, sisters, our street-smarts  clothes sodden,
You are here, we see you, you are not forgotten

Feeling of euphoria dominating that room

That exasperating space of leftover domestics, lust verging on predatory
Unwashed, unclipped, orange tinged fingertips scooping up the dregs of Asda's smart price nuts

I was in my element, masking my child in me
My hormonal fireworks had gone into this moment.

I had made it.

I was 14 and a pub singer.

My family beamed, my Dad unrecognisable
The room roared, happy feet stomped and energetic hands clapped; erupting into our very own earthquake

I took a sneaky mouthful of my concealed pint, covering my modesty in my must look 18 dress

The rockers rocked
The lovers kissed
Eighties fans shook their hips
My father missed... it

The smoke was as thick as **** the *****
It danced in a flurried daze with our quickened breath, singing 'Tubthumping'

If I could have bottled that, I would take a sniff of that smelling salt to bring me round any day

The same outcome time and time again
What happened next was yet to be the trademark of these nights

It was all going swimmingly
No tears, the fears all washed away
No fresh broken veins rising to the surface of my mother's face
No stutters in the risk of turning happy times to grave

All was fabulous, darling

Then the taxi driver came
Prompt, on time, pulled up to the line
Got out the car, held our door, greeted us

We hopped in and he softened the sounds of his zithers and drums and CRASSSHHHH
like that..
Father Jack was back

The Tasmanian whirlwind of Dad
His vomiting of ignorant bile
The tarnished look of shame
The spit escaping his furious tongue
Our blushed red cheeks and the look of fear in the rear view mirror

The want to float, erase, rewind the time to drumsticks and toothpicks digging out smart price nuts from our teeth

To fly to a time when Dad was 5 and be there
Not just fob him off to nearest kids home
'John, she's pregnant again, fetch your clothes'
... and nurture him, tell him he was loved and teach him right from wrong

Those rear view eyes, counting down the time

We cleaned up the aftermath, disinfected the air with our apologies and curtseyed away whilst he licked his wounds

Next gig pencilled in, St Patrick's Day.

I've lost my compassion
I was adamant I packed it in my bag this morning

I can't seem to find it anywhere...

I have been gifted in understanding you can unlearn your 'truth'

I won't lay my towel on the garage floor
I won't do it
For you, no more
Orange stripes
Pink flecks
'neath seven year old flesh

I won't lay my towel on the garage floor

They say poets have imaginative super powers

I'd describe it as having super courage, to reopen our scars,
peeling back layer upon layer of carefully constructed skin,
woven with purpose to suppress our forbidden haunts,
into the hollows squashed between dissected organs and fractured bones.

Poetry, my soul bearer, life alterer, my reflection and my most favourite of gifts.

From birth, through younger years
You think adults are the best
They know it all, don’t question them
Even ones in stringy vests

But then through wide awakenings
From innocent teen eyes
Your conditioned way of thinking
Is shifting all the time

Morrison’s doors of perception
To Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty Four”
Digesting Brown’s “Da Vinci Code”
What’s behind Dad’s study door?

I always thought there’s something
Something missing from Mum’s smile
Sincerity, yes that is it
Her sparkle’s light-yeared out for miles

I caught my College Tutor out
Her face was filled with dread
As I asked her complex questions
She rambled and went red

It’s not the work you contribute
That catapults you through
It’s who you know, not what you know
That gets you through round two

It’s realising the rich get rich
Capitalising on the poor
Mocha choco frappucinos
To Primani discount stores

It’s sweaty public transport
Followed by a gruelling shift
Evils from your sadist manager
For laughing at his quiff

Offered a promotion
Yes, they’ve recognised my worth
Then the disappointment fills the air
When they ask me to move turf

From Manchester to Liverpool
A fair distance I would say
But with two small kids and secretly
Another on the way

It’s either this or loss of job
This once was steady job
They’re packing up and moving out
To make room for some snobs

They’re all blagging it, they are
No one gets their dream come true
Kaleidoscope shapes are twisting
Now the truth is shining through

A positive is being aware
We’re all muddling through this life
From observation to motivation
I won’t become a stepford wife

I’ll make the best of this you see
I’ll make my family proud
I’ll bulldoze through eternity
Leaving my trail through the clouds

I forgot to arrange an appointment with my doctor about being so forgetfu....

Do you remember that time we belly laughed about letting work consume our lives?

No? Neither do I.

As I stared at the knife in my mind
I banished that imagery from all consciousness

Until now