My Daughter

My ovaries laugh when he says kind things, yet they won’t get the chance to see you come into the world.

You will be of other parents and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?

I’ve struggled with the choices I’ve made, yet I made those choices for a few good reasons.

I struggle without my daughter, but if she came into the world then it would never be as I imagined.

There’s too much horror for broken people like me, so we:
mature later,
laugh hard; and
hurt more,
for so many long-winded reasons.

I see the normal ones. The ones who can have it all. I see them and then I look deeper. Cracks lay across the picture. Black ink seems to smear parts of the image. Underneath there are pieces of them hurting, hating, hiding, hitting, kicking and screaming, dying, crying and lying.

I see no normal ones. Instead, I see many filters blocking out reality. I see myself and I know that life is about fate and destiny, but also about strength and courage. Life is about love, but not this anger that’s consumed me for too long.

Sitting and feeling sadness boil into anger and resentment, I write it all out. Perhaps I will never have my daughter, but then perhaps no one else will too.

Waiting for You

This world wasn’t meant for the weak, but am I really that strong?

I see you in another land with a pink smile and shining eyes, but is that really you in there?

Sitting in my room with mould on the walls and a cold chill that seeps through, I’m reminded of poverty.

Yet, when I look out the window I see the highlands calling. The streams and mountains call from somewhere ancient to tell me it will be alright.

As I look at the mirror black, I see a face I barely recognise staring back;
yet there’s familiarity in those eyes and in those lips.

Undecided yet hopeful, I run outside and towards the hills.

It’s not awful to run, but the sky is so beautiful and grey today.

I wonder when you’ll find me standing by a bin in some random street waiting to touch you again.