Oct 2017
Crystalized, you peer through a window.
Layers of twisted mirror and glass coldly wrap themselves with mist over this buried drawer in my memory cabinet.
I can still smell a moment in there when life changed forever, the day my spidey senses permanently imploded and cocoon childhood crumbled around me in less than an hour, taking technicolour with it.
An aftertaste of grey still lingers on my tongue, I barely notice it anymore.
Time can stand as still as a thief in the shade.
Fear, despair and dread ganged up, bullying me all at once.
Pounding my chest with punches until you three pierced through and stuck, like a knife, in the back to front.
This language is not learnt on purpose, some of us are unfortunate enough to speak it fluently
Like trying to catch a rat that lives under the floor and in the walls.
I try and open this drawer over and over, but my fingers...
Freeze frame in fear near this black hole memory where time stops in orbit, dead, cold.
This is the day I played with a tennis ball in the front yard and my Dad found my Mom with another man, this is the last day I would see her in the light for 9 years.
She left me with her shadow though, and hatred.
The three of us become good friends exploring tundras of arctic grey together.
Stuck in the body of a boy without a childhood.
Speaking became like laying my spine on a fishing line.
Pain stopped hurting.
I can end there but one day...
You came back and my middle shook off centre, the poles shifted and ice caps melted for a moment when I hugged you.
I wanted to drown in your arms.
Time stopped again, I can count the breaths.
At the age of 18, I learnt that you are still a Mother, to a 9-year-old boy, that died, 9 years ago.
Now at the age of 27, I learn that I am still the 9-year-old son, of a Mother who died 18 years ago.
We can be friends though, and I can call you Mom, and we can both pretend to be ok, alive in grey cold mist, I can offer you true forgiveness.
The pain stopped hurting, I don't think that's a good thing.
I still want to drown in your arms
Layers of twisted mirror and glass coldly wrap themselves with mist over this buried drawer in my memory cabinet.
I can still smell a moment in there when life changed forever, the day my spidey senses permanently imploded and cocoon childhood crumbled around me in less than an hour, taking technicolour with it.
An aftertaste of grey still lingers on my tongue, I barely notice it anymore.
Time can stand as still as a thief in the shade.
Fear, despair and dread ganged up, bullying me all at once.
Pounding my chest with punches until you three pierced through and stuck, like a knife, in the back to front.
This language is not learnt on purpose, some of us are unfortunate enough to speak it fluently
Like trying to catch a rat that lives under the floor and in the walls.
I try and open this drawer over and over, but my fingers...
Freeze frame in fear near this black hole memory where time stops in orbit, dead, cold.
This is the day I played with a tennis ball in the front yard and my Dad found my Mom with another man, this is the last day I would see her in the light for 9 years.
She left me with her shadow though, and hatred.
The three of us become good friends exploring tundras of arctic grey together.
Stuck in the body of a boy without a childhood.
Speaking became like laying my spine on a fishing line.
Pain stopped hurting.
I can end there but one day...
You came back and my middle shook off centre, the poles shifted and ice caps melted for a moment when I hugged you.
I wanted to drown in your arms.
Time stopped again, I can count the breaths.
At the age of 18, I learnt that you are still a Mother, to a 9-year-old boy, that died, 9 years ago.
Now at the age of 27, I learn that I am still the 9-year-old son, of a Mother who died 18 years ago.
We can be friends though, and I can call you Mom, and we can both pretend to be ok, alive in grey cold mist, I can offer you true forgiveness.
The pain stopped hurting, I don't think that's a good thing.
I still want to drown in your arms
