men who slam doors,
punch walls
are just making sure you hear
how much they want to
                                          hit
                                                you
                                                      instead.

I’m sure sometimes even
doctors
have to practice
telling bad news,

until eventually they
think they’re desensitised.
But I’ve seen when
they have to tell themselves
it’s a just story,
to deliver it without crying too.

A little vial of blood
determined the difference between
losing life and growing it.

You were something I never thought I’d have,
the news was delivered like a punch to my ribs,
even after the fist had left
I still felt the pain between each breath.

You
could have been gorgeous,
could have smiled at me from bed
every step of mine reminds me
of the ones you will never take
could have laughed at school and
become the cure to our misery.

Instead, you became the cause;
a tender bruise too new to touch,  
a ripping of my stitches,
the beginning of my end.

To this day
I imagine your smile
in every baby.
I hear your every laugh and every cry
through them —
every video of first steps
reduces me to tears
for they,
could have been yours.

It’s cruel of mother nature,
to remind us
something as common as life
can be so precious, so fragile
that just a crack in the window

in a sheet of glass,
thin as my patience,
lies  between
life and death
and can leave us both
breathless.

I have the mouth of a sailor
Yet there are
still words that are
Unspeakable to me

Twisted metal
The thrill of it all
His hand cold instead of mine
God punish me

In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is
you.

I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your
moves.

I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.

I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.

And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.

Maybe,
I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and

I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.

Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.

I want to study you,  
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.

We,
who watched them,
down bottle after bottle.

We,
who are afraid to look
at a mirror, simply because
we’re scared to see
the alcoholic who raised us.

To all of us who don't look,
knowing we'll only
​see our predecessors -
those who couldn't stay sober
enough to raise us -
instead of seeing change.

Broken people bleed.
They bleed
when no one is looking.

It seeps from
cuts inside,
cracks
from dull knives

dragging against wrists.
Knifes too sharp
that leave
scars never quite healed right.

Faded, the impression never leaves,
indelibly pressed into the brain.
Painful secrets not yet told.
Like a memory that you can’t repress
it follows you.

You say,
‘forgive and forget’
but how can you forget
when it lingers
like his fingers on
my thigh, a
gentle contrast to the horrors just been.

Contrast between fists
slamming into walls,
my walls,
my ribs.

Begging forgiveness for his sins.
Clouds of tobacco smoke and *****,
warming insides,
hot shower burn my skin,
for if the dead can only feel cold
the burning heat
must mean I’m alive.

Broken people bleed flowers,
blossoming into rivers
of red.