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Lull

My soul is a sprawling bruise ,

A blackened, weary yawn

Wrapped in

Cigarette paper skin.

Sneering, sleepless, clammy night

Spider-crawls toward me

All scalding sirens and fractured voices;

Sometimes

Memories have the sharpest edges.

The air is almost apologetic

When fear’s white noise fills my lungs

And my pores sing in minor

While the thick, bass thud of my heart makes

A wild, galloping bid

For escape.

 

Packing It

A gag of chins around my neck

Saddened slump of a stomach

Legs wrapped in a litany

Of skin-spill and sunken ripples;

The body now heavier

Than the burden.

I’m beneath it all, somewhere

Buried in a bloated cocoon

And I put myself here

Filled my many nothings

With temporary, sensory somethings

Stopped the echoes

With muffled mouthfuls

Like I was trying to pack a wound.

 

Truth II

There were days when

Black clouds hung heavy

From her eyes

And I knew

She was a prisoner.

 

There were days when

She’d open like the heavens

In sobbing, wretched earthquakes

And the tremors screamed

Through my bones.

 

There were days when

She was ten mothers

And her happiness felt like a storm.

 

There were days when

An ambulance

Sat on the drive

And I couldn’t tell

If another day would come.

Who Am I?

The thought of writing an introductory post makes me squirm, to say the least; it feels like making eye contact, which is something I invariably struggle with.

Still, there is a person behind the poetry. I am she.

I have recently embraced writing again after a lengthy period wherein I barely wrote my name, never mind anything else. I’m a mother to four children so really, having time to write isn’t an easily afforded luxury. The problem is this: the longer I go without writing, the more I need to write. Eventually, my head erupts with the pressure of a million words desperate to be written – and if I can discipline myself, I give them release. This has been a lifelong cycle; it will remain so, too. 

What I have never really done is offered my writing up for consumption by other people. That’s a whole new challenge and really, it’s why I’m here. 

It is terrifying.

But, some things just need to happen as there isn’t really an alternative. At 33, I think I’m finally beginning to realise that writing is who I am – alternatives are not an option.

This Man

This man.

This man saw ships sail, seeking

The enemy.

This man’s brow furrowed against

The winds of war.

Hero. Valiant soldier.

This man stole his nobility

And wore it like a cloak

While watching little girls play;

One hand twitching at the curtain,

The other between his legs.

This man stole innocence,

Made it his plaything,

Made her watch,

Made her.

This man stole power

And held it like a gun

To her head,

But now he’s dead

This man is the dust

That hangs in the air.

And he isn’t going anywhere.