She awkward steps back kitchen-side
This pan-lapsed food-fond alchemist
To where her latent joys reside
In flavour-labours sanctified
    Through boils, in bakes, on roasting
Her last cooked dinner, holiday
Before her dear one took their leave
Too painful kitchen-time replay
So, pots and mixers stored away
    Lost joy of home-heart toasting

Now humming with slight body quake
Full fear of fast descent in tears
Yet realising the heady ache
Was no impending weep-long lake
    But simple mess frustration
In truth the galley, clean enough
But who put all her tools away?
No soldier knife line, shining tough
No pin for shortcrust, brush for puff
    No decorating station

Crisp tuts for every tool misplaced
With tiny sighing shoulder arch
Utensils that could not be traced
Like grieving that could not be faced
    Rough substitute located
While losing whisk, sieve, spoon, and knife
With larger pieces from her past
In working through small kitchen strife
She found her hiding zest for life
    In crusty pastry braided
    Joy-cooking reinstated

i am not thankful for my trauma.

my trauma did not make me a stronger,
better person.
my trauma put me into a constant state of fear.
my trauma made it impossible for me to feel secure.
my trauma told me i was unlovable and made me think maybe i was a bad person.
my trauma doesn’t let me rest.
my trauma will never stop following me.

my trauma did not make me stronger.
it made me weak and terrified of vulnerability.

so stop telling me how strong i am for overcoming things i never should’ve had to.
i don’t want to be strong,
i want to be able to feel my emotions,
i want to be able to be vulnerable, without fear.

i want to be unapologetically me again.
i miss what’s dead in me

speaking the invisible visible
sharing a constant acceptance
acknowledging unity is real.

A single gull in turbulence soars strange
Beach wind-groans whipping sand to concrete hail
In mute fatigue, the blue-grey sky submits
Obedient to winter’s shore-lashed slap
Until pacific breezy balms prevail

Across the roadway suburbs roost on dunes
Dry salt-sand soils, poor beds for cottage plants
Post sand-blast rain provides a rare life-drink
Wet softens crunchy grasses wielding burrs
Now possible their jaunty wind-bend dance

Three weeks have lapsed since breath was morphed to talk
Your silence cuts - ice words would waste chill air
I huddle under muddled blankets shield
To hide-sleep travel time to spend the day
No warmth in lonely waking waiting there

This chatless treatment, stony, icy hush
Sound muffles as a newly fallen snow
In quiet, distant cool is bitter fierce
Cold time a sorry echo of disdain
As timid clock dull thud-ticks glacial slow

New sound returns thawed tempers given days
Shy cautious in first breaths, as blue-grey sky
Out-waits the stinging punishment in sand
Outstretched the quaking warmness-seeking hand
As spring comes melting frost to snug and dry

i tend to blame my mother for everything that is wrong with me.
the insanity and
insecurity
and addiction to temporarily filling a void meant for
her love.
My heart beats to the rhythm of her footsteps,
counting how many strides
i have left
to wipe away my tears before
she reaches my door.
there is no margin for error in her unspoken expectations.

i used to blame anything but myself for my actions.
i was a compulsive liar for 4 years,
a narcotic addict for 5.
i layered lies like pills
scattered throughout my room,
each finding their way into my mouth
at the wrong time.

i am the only thing that is wrong with myself.
i'm haunted by reflections in the mirror,
echoes of the girl i couldn't save.
i tried to scrub her off my skin,
carve around the edges and
crawl out of this body.
i became too familiar with the salty taste of bleakness,
a bittersweet over dose.
if only the child-locks on
medicine bottles
worked even after the child-like innocence was
lost.

i think
i want to be saved
a little more than
i want to be loved.

addiction is a tricky thing like that.
i tell everyone
i've been clean for 4 years.
truth is,
i've relapsed every one of those years and
for once,
i'm not proud of
the things i've done to numb myself.
yesterday,
i got a whiff of the perfume i wore at
the peak of my dependence.
i gave in.
i don't think i really tried to stop myself.
i was looking for an excuse to fall back into orbit,
each day revolving around
getting my next fix,
not this pit in my stomach.

one time,
i took all the pills scattered through my room and
lined them up on
my childhood bed,
counting and
recounting and
counting once more for good measure.

the rattling of pill bottles makes me nostalgic.

i wonder who i could've been without the
sickly sweet lies,
entire lives buried beneath ignorant comfort,
if i had taken the time to know myself
rather than
sitting back and
missing out on who i could have been.

addiction is
living with the reality of rotting flesh and
damaged bones,
yet thinking of it as nothing other than a part of yourself.

addiction is
pushing the pessimism out of the inevitable
because
you're still naive enough to believe that
it won't be the thing to **** you.