oh, he’ll be there
for the good times
for the falling in love
over a bottle of red wine times
for the holding hands in the woods
and for the wishing on should
an eternity, a whole,
two bodies, but one soul
oh, he’ll be there
but not for when things turn sour
when minutes feel like hours
across the dining table
the candle light a token gesture
and not a word has been spoken yet
empty promises of, i’ll never leave you
but he won’t be there when it’s needed
punching, kicking, scratching, screaming
he won’t be there when the tears come streaming
he was there for the good version of you
on your best behaviour, you
for the confident, happy, exciting you
but when reality came, like an awesome wave
he couldn’t see it through
after all, i’ve come to learn, i was nothing more than a getaway car
that drove too fast
and eventually took us both tumbling
off the path
yes, i am talking to you.
you unbuckled your seatbelt and leapt
from the impending wreckage
and you ran
without a second glance over your shoulder
to see the flames
that you’d left.
(he won’t be there)
Silence never sounds like it’s supposed to.
Silence is an echo chamber
of words unspoken,
and anxieties welling up to the surface.
Bubbling, bursting through the millpond of the mind.
Silence is an empty dancefloor
once the music has been turned off
and everyone has left
You’re left with the ringing in your ears, and a scratching in your throat
from screaming to be heard over that
Silence is an empty railway tunnel.
Gaping and anticipating
the next train of thought, coming along
bulldozing it’s way through the temporary vacancy between your ears.
Silence is a forest,
full of moss-covered rocks just waiting to be overturned.
Patches of fog hang despondently between the listless branches
Don’t peer too close, you might scare yourself
with the weight of all the things you do not know
that lie in the gloaming.
Silence is the gap between the thunderclaps.
That is all.
The rain it still pours.
And the echo of the last distance rumble
tumbles around your hollow head.
Silence is the torchlight of the interrogation.
Why weren’t you good enough?
When did it all go wrong?
Why are you like this?
Why can’t you just move on?
it never stops.
body can feel it, the
crushing weight of your absence.
drought for the soul.
fine, i’ll say, i’m doing
how have you been?
i‘ll ask you
just to start a conversation. it’s more than
kind of sad, that we’ve gone from
messed up, to almost
only we knew what we had, a
patient love, that grew
quietly, over time, like the confluence of two
rivers coalescing. they
time changes people, but i didn’t think it would change the course of
us, and now here i sit, staring
vacantly at the blank
wall, i’ll still finish my messages with an
you don’t. you’ve already
No one saves you.
Not a boyfriend, or partner, or friend, or family member.
Sure, they can help. Make you feel better for a short while.
But they don’t fix you.
No amount of love from someone else will amount to anything if you still hate yourself.
I’m not saying we all need to love ourselves.
It’s too much to ask.
But just being neutral would be nice.
Not hating ourselves for other people’s misdemeanors, and forgiving ourselves for our own.
Otherwise we’re searching constantly for someone else to say;
“YES! You are good enough!”
“YES! You have value!”
“YES! You are loved!”
But it doesn’t always go like that.
People let you down.
Sometimes people just don’t know what to say.
And if you’re waiting for them to put your pieces back into place, you’ll crumble when they don’t.
And then it’s their fault.
But it’s not.
It’s nobody’s fault.
Let’s not assign more blame.
You’re just hurting.
From old wounds, re-opened.
The more you ignore it, the worse it will get.
You can exist outside of other people’s opinions of you.
You won’t suffocate.
And you won’t drown either.
We used to say
“I’m so in love with you”
“Would it be okay if I spent the rest of my life with you?”
We used to say
“I feel I can achieve anything with you by my side”
“You give me warm fuzzy feelings inside”.
We used to text each other
“Your eyes sparkle”, and
“I feel at home in your arms”
“I would trust you with my life in your wide open palms”.
We used to text each other
“I’m so proud of you”
“You give my life meaning”
and “you’re the love of my life, too”.
40 months, and 24 days later.
Now, we text each other, if we even text at all,
“I hope you’ve had a nice weekend”
and “sleep well”
and I wish I didn’t feel this small
I hate to see young women post “before and after” pictures of themselves.
It’s a myth.
There was never a before or after version of yourself.
During hardship, during heartbreak, during the best of times, during your apocalypse. During love, and bitterness and beauty and all-consuming rage.
It upsets me so much because it feels like we’re mocking our younger selves. Belittling them. As if our bodies were ever supposed to look anything different from exactly as they did at that point in time. If that was how we were, then that was where we needed to be, and to mock our past selves is to dishonour our wonderful life-giving bodies for doing their most important job of all. Which, of course, is simply allowing us to survive up until that point. Regardless of shape or size.
Posting pictures like that feels like we’re saying “Look at that shameful person, I am not associated with that anymore.”
Like we’re burning bridges.
Like our body was just a fairweather friend anyway, who we can cut ties with when we decide they’re no longer good enough for us.
But, if we burn all our bridges,
how will we ever find our way back home?
- being alone
- not being good enough
- making the wrong decision
- losing the people i love the most
- the words and thoughts of others
- failure – in so many ways at so many different things
- missing out on “life”
- time moving too fast
These are just the big things. There are other things. Like farting loudly in a crowded public place, and being trapped in a lift. Oh, and needing the toilet when there isn’t one around. And being publicly humiliated. And bumping into my ex. And upsetting people. Accidentally saying something offensive or ignorant. Fire. Being violently assaulted. Plane crashes. Being sick. Being really sick. Awkward social situations. Meeting new people. Touching door handles in public bathrooms. Raw meat. Confrontations. Crying when I don’t mean to. Getting pregnant by accident. Slipping and being knocked out and not being found for days. Car crashes. Losing my memory. Loved ones losing their memories. Drifting apart from old friends. New situations. Looking stupid and self-conscious. Making a bad first impression. Wasting time. Regrets. Being far from home. Losing talents and abilities. Being unattractive. Public speaking.
Having my skirt tucked into my knickers without realising.
Never amounting to much.
Trees miss their blossoms in the winter.
It gets dark. It gets cold. The nights are inconceivably long. The sunlight barely shines through the overcast greys.
And weeds grow.
They start growing where there used to be daisies and daffodils.
The weeds can tough it out.
The daisies can’t.
They wilt at the first frost.
But weeds can bear flowers too. Unexpected and hardy.
A flourish of colour amidst the gloom.
Weeds accompany the trees through their harsh winter.
and offer them their own flowers as compensation.
It’ll never be quite as brilliant as a spring in full bloom,
but it’s something to cling on to.
The winter will drag on forever.
But the trees are patient.
Their blossoms will return.
When the moon and the sun
decide it’s so.
we once walked the same path.
you and i.
for four years, almost.
the same well worn trail.
there were small flowers growing out of our footprints.
and moss slowly growing on fallen branches.
and ferns reaching for light in the dark of the undergrowth.
we used to hold hands as we walked.
i don’t think i even realised our paths had diverged until i was clinging onto your hand by my out-stretched arm and my fingertips.
and you weren’t reaching for mine anymore.
i looked up, and could barely see you through the thicket that had enveloped the gulf now between us.
i didn’t see the warning signs.
i didn’t see the cracks beneath our feet.
i didn’t notice you veering off on your own course to avoid a fallen tree.
“two roads diverged in a wood”
it is not our path anymore.
it is not our story anymore.
and it’s mine.
two separate paths winding their own course through the forests.
but for four years it was ours.
and it was magic,
because the path we walked together was golden.
sweep me off my feet and take me where I need to be
because I no longer know.
pour down on me in a deluge, a flood
wash away my grief,
let my tears mix with your raindrops on my cheeks
so neither of us can tell the difference
between heartbreak, and nature.
light a small spark in my soul again,
a smoldering ember among the ashes of what I used to be,
to give me a passion
where have you gone?
I used to feel you beneath my feet,
but now I’m sure I’m falling.
Ground, come up to meet me and catch me.
After all, it’s not the fall itself that kills you in the end, is it?