Pardon the mess.
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to heal from
being broken by
you trying to fix
what wasn’t broken
but was different.
It didn’t’ fit so push
pry, chop, mash
squeeze and tape.

Pardon the messy
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to love who I am.
Not who I was supposed
to be, or how I was
supposed to be.

Pardon the tears.
I am using salt and water
to cleanse wounds
and old scars.

Pardon the burnt timbers.
some bridges just are
made to be burnt.
I will draw new dreams
in ashes and tears
across my arms and chest.

Pardon the frustration.
would it be easier if I was
quieter, or maybe angry?
Quiet you can ignore.
Anger you can get mad about.
I am just figuring out
a lifetime of crossed wires
and mixed signals.
Coded messages I couldn’t
crack because they were
a language, not a code.

Pardon the rambling.
Some things are not
made to be put away
neat and tidy in a box.
I know you are uncomfortable.
I won’t stop healing
but you can have a nap.
The easy things you’ll see
the hard work – no.

Pardon the acceptance.
I won’t be less for you
to feel like you are more.
I won’t hide the scars.
They prove I made it out.
I honour them now.

Pardon the mess.
I am busy trying to
heal what was broken
while you were trying to
fix what wasn’t broken
in the first place.

Doing deep work in therapy. Finding my way. It is helping. And it is exhausting.

Barbed Wire Touch

Our lives pass, one by the other.

Sometimes I reach out to hang

a hope, a wish, a dream, some love

on your fast passing barbs.

You reject my offerings, instead

you swing in for the pound of 

flesh not owed nor freely given.

Seeking not love offerings but

blood and flesh on your barbs.

You don’t want love offerings.

You crave blood and tears.

Riding fast past a barbed

wire fence is dangerous.

One step too close and

you are cut to ribbons.

But this fence moves!

Entangles. Wraps. Reaches.

This fence doesn’t want

to keep the prey it snares.

They are more fun when

you can snag them

another time.

You don’t want my love.

My blood and flesh, 

sweat and bitter tears.

Master of the side swipe,

you know how to reach

the tender parts. 

Deep wounds bleed.

Silent sacrifice cries.

You leave. Waiting.

I’ll heal. You’ll shine

and be back for another

pound and a pint.

I should start carrying

fencing pliers to cut you.Image