Phoenix heart… needing only a breath to stir the ashes back to fiery life…
Reading the piece “Grief” by the beautiful human and talented poet SouldierGirl, opened an old seam in the fabric of me…
Does my grief equal? Can I speak at all to offer comfort?
Three of my babies were never born
“You’ll have more”
“Better now than when they’re older”
“I would have married you”
Well-intentioned words, with the accuracy of blow darts
My lost angels
I have screamed at the notion that time heals
In the truest sense, it does and it has
I rewove the fibres of my being with those threads missing
Altered by an absence
Fashioning Taj Mahal pockets in my heart
Stitch by careful stitch, day by month by year
I go on
28 August 2015
As you perform this emotional surgery
Unskilled surgeon, please be kind
For with this exploratory probing
You just may come to find
That you aim to sever an artery
Only to cut the ties that bind
7 September 2013
It still catches me at least once a day…
This horrific loss, like a severed limb, haunts even my physical being.
As if Life – the fucking bully – has just punched me so hard in the solar plexus, that it’s all I can do to stop from vomiting up my guts.
I wanted to believe in happiness, to be loved, to share my life.
I wanted to believe that the girl who didn’t get asked to Prom could grow up to be somebody’s princess.
I wanted to believe that the bad guys – or girls – get what they deserve, that the good guys win and that faerytales come true.
Even to me, I sound like a plaintive, perfectly ridiculous teenage girl.
I want my soul returned.
I want my heart unbroken.
I want my dreams untarnished.
Meanwhile, the haemorrhage continues.
I feel my heart, so recently fuelled on endorphins, fire and hormones, slowly decelerate.
Stuttering back to idle, slipping slowly to full stop.
One of the walking wounded.
Fitting, I suppose. The year winds down, dying in a brilliant blaze of fiery colour, giving way to Sister Winter and her funereal coldness. The leaves make their own grave and so too does my heart.
Here lies the wild, the untamed, the untrained. Now left unclaimed and maimed.
I think I’ll just kick some metaphorical leaves over this useless bit of me and leave it’s lonely resting place unmarked.
27 September 2013
Is it possible to be both healed and broken by love?