Tag Archives: recovery

Mountain

You feel so heavy some days.
Like you’re too rooted, too solid.
You wish you weren’t a place tired pilgrims wander to,
when they want reassurance of how far they are willing to go.
Listen sweetheart;
do you think a mountain looks up and wants to be a bird?
If you ever falter,
remember how you felt like you were once part of the dirt,
and how you’ve raised yourself high.
One way or another,
you’ll reach the sky

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Attack

I guess it feels like I’m waging war on the memory of a monster,
on myself, on society;
my throat closes up like a clawed hand is around it.
These words are my knives, this is a battle roar!
But this isn’t a war,
this is me standing outside of an abandoned house,
begging the thing that used to live there to come out and fight me.
(You coward! You fucking coward!)
I must keep doing this, I suppose, until the urge to rip something to pieces subsides.
And my tired footsteps home sounds like victory drums,
and my exhausted wheezing sounds like hymns.

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slide and stumble.

Let me just…
You lie there while I slip into something comfortable.
Denial,
bad coping mechanisms,
and cheap lingerie.

I wear my recovery like perfume,
so I say,
lie back.
Let me just quickly put something on.
I don’t know what you are expecting,
but I’m almost naked and I smell like war.

Let me get ready for this.
I’ll smile and pretend the days will come;
without regret,
without you leaving.
Strip me bare
of illusions,
dreams,
and clothes.

In the end
there is nothing for you here,
I make better love to myself.
At least I don’t flinch at the sight of teeth.

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This is how you become broken

This is how you become broken,
by hardening your skin so much they can’t tell you apart from your grandmothers ornate plate that you keep in the bookshelf.
Then say nothing, only soft things have mouths and words and reasons, you are unyielding and made of ceramic, glass or thin brittle stone.
Paint on your skin in colours seemingly random but to you signify the path so far.
(I’ve chosen peacock colours and my face is all gold.)
This is how you become broken,
once you have made yourself into a mantlepiece decoration, leave yourself in someones hands and watch as you slip through their fingers and onto the floor.
See their mouths form a surprised “O” because they thought you were flesh but you know better and now they do too.
Spend days, months, years trying to find glue strong enough to hold your pieces together, but realise that you’re probably never going to be whole again.
Mourn the pieces that escaped you as you landed on that floor.
Trust no one with fingers to ever touch you again, or rub your jagged edges against them to see if they flinch.
Loving you is now a test and they will always fail.
This is how you become broken, by pretending you’re once hard then shattered.
By pretending you are made of something that can come undone, into pieces.
But we are not glass, or ceramic, or thin brittle stone.
My thighs yield under touch and my arms are strong enough to carry myself.
And I know your soft cheeks and your eyes and your smile on soft rose petal lips.
And darling, you can’t break.

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Urban exploring

You say you wish I could love me as much as you do,
but you love empty houses with a passion I find frightening.
Are you trying to climb inside my walls to see what others have left behind?
Will I be remembered as an adventure you tell your friends about,
the one time you set up camp and lived vigorously while I fell apart around you?
I’m being unfair and belittling, yes, because the alternative is that when you look at me you see something whole.
And for all I talk big of anger and forgiveness I dread to think that these feelings are mere phantom pains that will fade.
I love you, I love you, I love you and I’m scared you’ll come home and find my windows nailed shut.
I’m scared that for all the shouting and rain raging against my doors I will never open again.
For sake of argument, let’s pretend I’m a woman and not an empty house.
I need you to promise me you’ll always hold my face in your hands like you hold the key to something special,
because you’ll find in the process of rediscovering forgiveness and anger I also found greed.

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Warfare

There is nothing romantic about being a battlefield where men have fallen.
Babe, your hair is the colour of red crumbly bricks of a fallen building.
The same bricks you picked up and threw against a window when you were 13.
You never told anyone, there was a lot you never told anyone.
I know you feel like they’ve dug trenches in you.
I know you feel like you’re covered in shrapnel from men who would not stop exploding in your vicinity.
And sometimes when you speak they hear nothing but sirens.
I’m sorry you’re hurting while they get to run for cover.
But darling you were born with riots in your veins,
and there are days when you wake up to silence,
there are nights when your eyes aren’t burning.
And I think it’s time you march on home.
March home, sweetheart, and tell them you won.

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We are

We are the women made of stars that have exploded so far in the past it makes us dizzy.
And we can’t get out of bed.
We are the fierce warriors who fight to survive against dishes and clothes and empty fridges.
And for every victory we lose three battles.
We are the monsters who devour men whole yet we can’t seem to find our words in this world.
And their bones get stuck in our throat.
We are the women with back up plans, with emergency bags and written down pep talks on tattered post it notes from months ago in a different country.

And we can’t get out of bed. 

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