“I’m coming home”
Tears draining bloodshot eyes
Plane tickets
And a pandemic
Picked up from the airport
And sleeping in the back seat
Long hugs
And “I’m glad you’re back”
Dad’s coffee
And your teenage bedroom
The North Sea
And 4pm sunsets
Clean breaks
With soft landings
Oh how sweet it is
To be caught.
Why is it always Mister Men and Little Miss?
Why little?
You
misled me, made me little miss
misery. I was
misguided and
mistook my
misfortune for good luck.
I was
miserable, under your tyranny of poorly disguised
misogyny.
I
misread the signs, and had the
misfortune to
misunderstand your indifference for love countless times.
And yet, your biggest
mistake, was to
misunderestimate
me?
Little Miss?
There are some lasts we don’t remember.
They pass us by in their seeming insignificance.
The last time your dad made your lunch.
The last time your mum read you a bedtime story.
The last time you were tucked in goodnight.
The last time you were picked up at the school gates.
But there are some lasts we’ll never forget.
That last exam before graduating.
The last time you spoke to your gran on the phone.
That last goodbye at the airport.
The last time you squeezed their hand and they squeezed it back.
I don’t know which lasts are more important. The ones that slip past us, unnoticed, or the ones etched into our memories forever.
But, if you had known at the time, that those insignificant lasts would never happen again, would you have behaved differently? Hugged them for longer? Held onto the moment for just a fraction more? Said thank you, and I love you?
your heart
is a patch-work quilt
of the others you’ve stolen,
and mine
is a bucket with holes in.
Do you think you broke me first?
Do you not think I’ve been through this before?
At the hands of another man.
(If we can call him that)
Do you think you broke me the hardest?
Do you think this is the worst pain I’ve ever been put through?
No, I was 18 and three quarters.
Naïve heartbreak is always the worst,
the one you don’t see coming.
Do you think you cut the deepest?
Have you not seen my scars?
From those before you
who plunged the knife further than you’d ever go,
down to the bone.
Do you think you hold that badge for me?
First? Hardest? Deepest?
No.
There were others before.
And the worst thing about it? Is that you knew that already.
And you didn’t think to handle my heart more carefully?
Of course not.
But you were the one I expected more from.
That badge?
It’s always been yours.
i could name you all,
you know?
i could write your names out right now
for the whole world to see
to shame
i could do it
you know?
so why don’t i?
why do i sit here carrying the shame of you,
and you
and you
and you?
you, who knew i’d said no, twice, and continued.
you, who knew what i’d seen, and that i should’ve gone to the police.
you, who gaslit me for years, taught me i was crazy, losing my mind.
you, who emotionally blackmailed me into thinking it was my fault for your wrong doings.
so why don’t i?
why don’t i make a list?
a black list.
of names.
to warn other women.
so maybe they don’t have to go through what i went through.
and the fact that i don’t?
does that make me complicit?
does it make me a coward?
or have i learnt that nobody will believe me either way?
because –
no, not him, he wouldn’t do that.
no, you’re lying.
no, you’re exaggerating.
no, that’s not what i heard.
i don’t make a list, because it puts me back in the firing line.
and it’ll be me that’s scrutinised.
well, what were you wearing?
were you drunk?
weren’t you just playing hard to get?
are you sure you saw what you did, because that’s pretty dark?
nobody would do that.
you’re lying.
but the list still exists.
in my head.
i know who you are.
and
in my head
you don’t get away with it
not anymore.
I think I’ve been too easy on you,
giving you credit where credit wasn’t due.
Saying you’re a good man deep down, and wishing you well,
but all of this niceness hurts me too.
Protecting your ego, your status, your pride,
even though the part of “you” that was “us” had died,
I still felt indebted to you, like I owed you something,
only to sacrifice my own peace of mind.
Our love was an empty house, and I was still haunting the halls,
singing your praises to the pictures on the walls,
thinking the problem, the hassle, the nuisance was me, when actually
forgiving you was my only downfall.
When you broke my heart I should’ve thanked you for it.
Instead I watched you watch in slow motion as it split,
with my head in my hands and tears streaked down my face.
I shouldn’t have stood for all your bullshit.
You had me on my knees,
and I was begging, pleading “please
don’t let this be the last of us, not here, not now”
but I am so grateful you didn’t agree.
So maybe I should thank you,
in the end, for what you put me through.
You raised all hell and pulled the earth out from under me.
But who knew a break up, could also be
a breakthrough?
I’ve watched my Dad being stretchered downstairs,
after hearing my Mum trying to resuscitate him on the bedroom floor.
Am I a grown up yet?
I’ve found the contents of my then boyfriend’s laptop,
which I later discovered,
when talking to the police,
would’ve landed him on a register for at least five years.
And I didn’t say a word for over a decade.
Am I a grown up yet?
I’ve scrubbed my sister’s blood from her bedroom carpet,
her bedsheets,
her clothes,
after driving an hour to take her to A&E.
Am I a grown up yet?
I travelled across continents trying to find escape,
but ended up being heartbroken at the hands of the one man I thought I could trust.
Am I a grown up yet?
I travelled back alone.
Never how it was supposed to be.
And had to pick myself up from zero.
I had nothing.
Am I a grown up yet?
I’ve had friends confess their suicide plans to me,
and have had to talk them out of it.
Am I a grown up yet?
I have a stable job,
yet feel completely replaceable.
No one would notice if I wasn’t there anymore.
Am I a grown up yet?
Every day I wonder how many days I have left with my loved ones.
I picture their deaths in vivid detail.
Is this what it means to be an adult?
Am I a grown up yet?
That time when I failed an exam, by two marks.
No hug or celebrations or cards,
just the disappointed look on my father’s face.
The times I’d catch my boyfriend looking at other women that way,
I’d wonder, how can I make sure he doesn’t leave me? How can I make him stay?
Make myself thinner?
Okay.
That time when my mental health hit an all time low,
and I was broken up with on top of that, perfect timing,
just to soften the blow.
All the times I was left at empty tables in the school dining hall,
no amount of friends at 30 will ever fill that hole.
That time when there was a group chat, for everyone, except me.
That’s happened a fair few times actually.
The times (years) I spent suffering from OCD
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3.
And wasting my parents’ time and energy.
Being ridiculed every morning for my crying, panic-driven, nightmares and screams,
the night before.
That time he cheated on me for six months,
yet told me he missed me
before calling it off.
To then parade her around in front of me like a trophy.
Every time I look in the mirror and think
“You used to be thinner, prettier. You’ve let yourself go,
and you can try but you’ll never look that good again though”.
Every morning when I wake up and recount,
all the ways I’ve let the people I love down.
My eyes burn from the tears I’m not crying
because I swore
I wouldn’t let what you did
hurt me anymore.
My hands are balled into fists
that won’t punch any walls.
The cracks in my heart not longer reflected
in brickwork
or frames of doors.
My mouth is pursed,
from words I’ll no longer let myself say.
I won’t pay any more lip service
to all the hell you raised.
But my heart remains open,
though still slightly bruised,
to accept the love from another,
and this time, it’s a love I choose.
stormsinteacups 