Leftovers

Leftovers

What’s wrong? Can’t you stomach the meat of my raw words?

Why should I melt into pretty poetry

just to make myself heard?

Find different herbs to soften delivery,

heat them on the slow cooker,

turn down the temperature to a simmer,

my heart charred with this slow burner

till I feel as alive as a used piece of furniture,

one that supports the curvature

of your collapsing backbone

as you sink me ever deeper

into your salt and pepper flavours

and I’m sick of how your cooking tastes.

When I force down each mouthful

I’m chewing on hate

and this is too late to salvage,

no amount of running under the cold tap

would ever turn these ingredients back

into their natural state.

Yet here I am, and here I’ve fucking been,

I wait and wait for the texture to change,

trying to sieve through the mush in my brain

whilst I choke on this hate

that’s now starved of patience

from watching you carefully decorate this opera cake.

Repeated layer after layer

and I’m placed in the centre,

a showcase for the shop window display

and how much staying here do you expect me to take?

Your tongue spins sugar lies

made to sound like appreciation

but you’re a self-obsessed chef

dressing deconstructed plates with destruction,

spreading poison

with your rotting food and garlic breath.

You should have learned to savour this

but instead it’s death by leftovers.

Tadasana

Tadasana

Spread your fingers wide, arms raised

towards the sky, like the sun

is pulling you to new heights,

to open spaces now that your hands

are no longer wrapped tight around your body

with impossibilities repeating.

Meet your feelings as peace doves,

treat their wounds, gather up their spilled blood.

Let the daylight soak into the scars on your exposed skin,

breathe in to your love coming home.

Memory Foam

Memory Foam

Uncertain who is holding the other

but one of us forgotten, foraging through our home in desperation to remember

what we did not know so cannot name

nor assure this body it is safe.

Blessed are we whose bravery guards the doors and windows

long past signs of danger, so fierce in our defence

it greets each demon as a stranger,

sounding alarms to activate emergency procedures

when the threat is but a spectre

with unfinished business.

Feeble and listless, these spirits will float

amongst the source of their affliction and our sickness

until they find in us a friend.

The Melting Point of Perception

The Melting Point of Perception

You can yell at me till spring turns to summer

turned to leaves turning yellow

but still these demons shout louder.

Here arrives as a long winter path paved with ice,

falling facts shatter on impact

across my frozen feet. It’s snowing glass

and their light rays bend blind eyes to a different reality;

one convinced the past is all that’s left of me.

I pinch the sun between two fingers,

beg for the burning present,

just one beam to heat each muscle,

aching to move.

Remedy for the Body Lost

Remedy for the Body Lost

Steady rhythm, pounding feet

and rising heart beat, caught in a battle of wills

with a maze of mental hills to climb

but covered in a sweat that is finally mine, from my skin,

a body I can again feel alive in through the out breath

where you left, no, where I left you

to starve on the side of a deserted road

with nowhere to escape my precious sunlight

and waiting a lifetime to be rescued.

Now it’s your turn to go through hell,

hear the bells ringing as your time has come

and I am running,

running with power,

power running through my blood.

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.