I watched him die
three quarters of my little life
I watched my mother die
next to him
although her body did not decay.
I watched her
ripped apart by love
spit and stamped on by love
I watched her clean up
puddles of love’s vomit
heard her drown in it
wailing for release.
the cries of grief are not made of rocks or sand.
I watched my brother
my sister, die
over the years to come
and I watched myself die, too.
how could you expect us to live
after seeing what life can do?
the rancid stench of sickness
stuck heavy like petrol in our air
the honey of hell
dripping off our tongues.
and what could be done?
we could not ask
Mother for help
because she died that night
just after he turned into yellow stone
she died as his mind bled out his ear
as his eyes, still blinking, became foreign
she died as she fed him (dutifully)
raised us (dutifully)
cleaned him (dutifully)
stacked supermarket shelves (dutifully)
told everyone he was sick and dying (dutifully).
and so it was that she died,
all those little deaths will kill you,
and you only realise when you ask yourself to love
and there is nothing but a dried up hole
in your heart, where love is supposed to live.
then, the fleeting offer of degradation
seems prettier than the promise of forever.
“you fools don’t know that forever will be what kills you!”
screams the hole, the little mouth
such a loud voice for something so
what if he dies those
long little deaths
before my eyes,
dragging me down to hell
as my father did to her?
and I, the fool in love
will I sit dutifully as he dissolves and churns, alone?
a whole life’s sacrifice for love,
only for him to die on me?
this psychology is so complex
withered roots tangle and kiss in my
little mouth of little deaths
learned the lesson that love is pain
love is death
love is grief and anguish
and put my theories to the test more than once
proved tout a fait
so suffer, screams the hole.
good reason dictates life is worth it,
suffering only a lesson
just neurons and nerves
but good reason cannot answer to
fear that feels bigger than all of existence
to pain that sets my face on fire,
turns m limbs into twigs and
my breath into acid.
but will you die on this hill, girl?
will you take that left fork
and cut off you arm
to stay alone, safe?
it’s what they all sing about
love, love, love.
and I know now that life is lovely
at the very least
and that good reason
it dictates love is not
but I have to feel it
to believe it.
I have to open that gate
oil the rusty hinges
find a compass through the noise
and chatter of death,
let my feelings marry my reason.
life is not living if
controlled by fear, after all
and maybe it is a bird that I need
to string to my wrist
and guide me home.