If we could be honest about motherhood
how many mothers would tell you
they were made one well before their time?
How many would tell you that postpartum depression doesn't have an expiry date?

My children,
they were not born from kindness
they were not born from loving men,
instead
trapped in a maze of lies and fear
six feet deep and 8 years long
it may have ended but
how long will it take to fade from my mind?

my children
are my world-
metaphorically and literally,
my days a repetition of the ones before and
I am overwhelmed, overstimulated,
alone, alone.
But these thoughts are not made to be heard
so I'll put a smile on my face
and pretend that everything is fine.

The water kissed
the edges of the beach,
and the moon kissed
the sun goodnight,
but you never even
managed to kiss me
goodbye.

You are small
notes on
worn paper,
"don't eat that,
you'll hate yourself
later."

I found myself barely breathing
on the bathroom floor with no one around,
except the guy downstairs who I
realised I love,
even though I told myself
never to love again.
Maybe this time,
my veins will stay closed
and my lungs will have air.
Maybe this time,
loving him won't turn wrong.

It's 3am and I can still feel
your collarbone underneath
my fingertips, I can still feel
your calloused hand in mine
and I can still taste the
***** - in my lungs and on
your lips.
I can still hear the way
your words fell together,
and I can still hear you telling me
you love me.
I can still feel your body
against mine, your fingers touching
my skin,
your voice soft in my ear.
I can still feel the way
your teeth dug into my neck,
my skin,
leaving a mark to remind me
of you while I sleep alone,
in a bed too big for just one person
in a bed too cold without your warmth
in a bed too silent without your
uninterrupted breathing
while you're sleeping.
I can't seem to sleep if
you're not holding me
and I'm still trying to decide
whether I'm too far in or if
I just can't get out -
get out of the depths of your eyes,
the warmth of your body,
the rhythm of your words.
I guess I just don't want
to leave you behind.

Your name is imprinted
in my mouth,
under my tongue and
scraping down my lungs,
your fingertips are finding
holes in my body
that other people have left,
and you have a piece of string
and you're trying to stitch me
back together,
sewing the holes
shut,
kissing my scars that,
if they ever reopen,
and i swear it would be an
accident,
they would bleed your name.
And your nails have left
a mark on my back,
as if by digging in hard enough,
you could make art on a
canvas made of skin
and I don't think you know this,
but, by sewing the holes shut,
you wrapped the broken bones in my
body back up,
I remember when I tried to
glue my bones back together
with glue that never actually
worked, and I never tried
stitching them up like you did.
I like to imagine you made a
row of ribbons along my
ribcage that spell out your name.
And someday, maybe these
broken bones will be fixed,
with cracks along every single
one of them that scream your
name like the air in my lungs
do, and I guess that's okay.

I've never had a home
that felt like one,
more than the home I
feel when you put your
arms around my waist,
when you kiss my neck
and when you whisper
my name into my ear.

You're a little like a shipwreck and I think you lost your heart amidst all the piles of rust and dust and I tried to help you by looking for it but everything was so dark and I couldn't find a light, so I tried looking in your eyes but there was nothing there.
You lost your mind a few years ago and I don't think you've ever really been the same. Your eyes used to hold an eternity of light, but now they're darker than the darkest of nights.
You treat your body like a canvas and it looks like you're trying to draw a map, I always knew you were lost but I couldn't figure out where you were, maybe you're lost inside yourself, and I don't know where your map is planning to take you but I hope you get out okay and I hope it's nicer than where you are now.
You look like you're made out of paper and you are so fragile I can't remember the last time I touched you because everything I touch seems to break and I couldn't do that to you.
You have power lines surging through your veins but you're breaking them one by one, so I guess you're not happy with them anymore. You leave cracks all along them and let the energy leak out.
You're like a minefield and I honestly don't know how to work my way around you anymore. I've had years of practice but you suddenly switched and now everything is different and I can't navigate you in the dark.
You started to do things that I do a few months back. Now you stand by me while I light things on fire, because I guess it's better than lighting myself on fire.
You stand by me while I stand on the edges of cliffs, my arms open and my head back, staring at the sky and wondering if I could make myself fly. I don't really want to, I just want to jump. But if I stepped off the edge, I would want you to fly.
And I don't really know which is worse, the look on your face when you know I'm not really there, or the look on your face when you suddenly realised you weren't either.
I'm still looking for your heart, but I think it has been swept away, I'm sorry, but never mind, you took mine anyway.

Your
kisses burned
your name
under my
skin.