You Say I Am Still Beautiful, But I’d Rather You Told Me I Was Brave

You Say I Am Still Beautiful, But I’d Rather You Told Me I Was Brave

Sometimes the only pain I can carry is the one that burns, that draws blood, because beating myself up is the only bearable unbearable way I know to bruise. Shallow breaths don’t support screaming, starving turns dark thoughts lightweight and lightheaded means less space to care. Wait till you see my bones and how the hurt just falls off me when it has nothing to hang on to, wait till you hear my heart rupture and rush red through my ribcage like it was running for its life. Then watch how love pours out my arteries and leaves when it believes I’m better off empty. You touch this frozen, unfeeling skin but all this shrinking means I shall slip through your fingers. Taste me on the breeze, somewhere not here.

The Operation

The Operation

Direct the surgeon

to make the incision

side left, inbetween my ribs,

pausing to let the cut bleed.

I need something warm to feel on my skin at the end,

so let it trickle, leave its stain.

Insert the tube through to my chest cavity,

drain the fluid, and once I am coloured grey

then keep going

till this body fades away,

deflates,

disintegrates.

Donate my organs

to one who understands their value

better than I did,

who knows to love every breath these lungs take

and can tell each beat of our heart

it has always been good enough.

How Trauma Dresses at Daybreak

How Trauma Dresses at Daybreak

I woke this morning in parts,

making coffee with crossed wires

and crying coconut milk.

Washed my body in two minds;

one mine, one a critical mother,

blood weeping from cracks in her breast bone.

A broken mirror watches

as clothes are chosen with baggy fit for comfort,

pulled on with careful movements,

for the world cannot know

of the war I wear in my chest

when I am missing whole pieces of woman.

That’s Not My Boyfriend

That’s Not My Boyfriend

Today was a good day

filled with self care

but still his thoughts

overwhelm him

more than he can bear

I see his point

when he tells me life isn’t fair

it’s a burden

he can’t shake to share

with a friend

as his mother tells me

that’s not like her son

and that’s not my boyfriend.

When he calls me in tears

with his anxious fears

thinking nobody hears

how alone he thinks he is

he’s been like this for months

he’s worried he’ll be like this for years

till his head will feel clear

in the end

but right now

that’s not my boyfriend.

He’s sliced through his arm

he’s covered in scars

he’s on a path of destruction

intent to do himself harm

he puts himself down

and pulls himself apart

lost sight of the talent

in the beauty of his art

to his bruised heart

I keep trying to mend

but my love

that’s not my boyfriend.

Last Thursday

police found him

stood on the edge

of a bridge

after he’d pledged

his intent

to work on his head

and I know

mental health

is far from easy to mend

but he deserves better,

because that’s not my boyfriend.

Trigger TV

Trigger TV

When even broken bones

burns

bite marks

internal injury

Her story

Her reality

is not considered worthy

neither for a charge

nor being found guilty,

when even without

Her words should be

Enough.

Maybe

if being an amputee

wasn’t internal

then you could see

as clearly

She wasn’t privy

to the memo

from the CPS and jury

about what constitutes believable,

since giving a reliable account

takes a PHD,

and to what degree

She just takes up your precious time

being angry.

Tell me,

is it as much

as he took Her body?