I have buried you so far in my darkness,
and prayed for your suffocation.
But still you breathe, still you beat,
A steady rhythm in the back of my mind,
a metronome of mistake tick-tick-ticking.
you remain, you are not remains.
you should be a skeleton, stark white and starved;
shoved to the back of my closet, all bones and death.
But still, you breathe, still you beat,
you are pounding down the doors,
screaming through my hallways.
you have become the darkness,
creeping in, crawling across my skin, caressing my heart.
You breathe, you burn, you beat (ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum).
I look at you,
and sometimes the darkness is so overwhelming that I forget:
I forget the way you smile with your whole face.
I forget your toothy grin when I roar and blow raspberries on that sweet tummy.
I forget your chunky thighs, tiny fingers and toes, and natural curiosity.
I forget your bright blue innocent eyes.
I forget that to you, I am the whole world.
I forget that I chose you, that I wanted you, that you are as perfect as a human can be.
Because all I see is the way I fail you.
All I feel is your pain, and my inability to heal you.
All I hear is your anguish.
Sometimes I look at you, and I am so deep in my own darkness
that I cannot see your light.
I’m doing my best,
please be gentle with me.
Postpartum blue is estimated to affect 80% of women. Postpartum depression is estimated to affect 10% of women.
I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like thinking about it. This is my truth right now.
my magic is quieter now–
gone are the times of wildly tangled sheets;
mornings filled with whispers of sticky skin
and bursting with an overwhelming recklessness.
my magic instead resides in sleepy awakenings,
tiny hands and toes prodding me into reality,
and a warmth spreading from the nose pressed to my hair.
my magic sparks with gentle kisses,
and precious giggles.
I am filled to the brim
with it every time I hear his words:
you’re beautiful, and I love you.
before he slips back to a half-concious state,
his hand a comforting pressure against my hip.
my magic still aches through my creaky bones,
but it is no longer from drunken 2am adventures,
hasty hands fumbling to own my body;
it’s from a natural agelessness, a wisdom of the world.
I overflow with life, my skin left with the scars of
the overwhelming responsibility of what it means
to be a mother; I overflow with love.
I never claimed loving me would be easy.
(you begged me to make it fair–
I shoved a knife in the space between your ribs
and ate your breath to the rhythm of your surprise).
I always had this notion,
that you belonged not with me
but to me.
(that was our final undoing. that
act of possession over partnership).
I can still feel the slide of you lips
against my skin as I took your first kiss
(the world you were all to happy to part with),
the spark of your body as, years later,
I took your innocence, your convictions
(it was all too easy).
(you never quite gave up the hold on your heart).
I never wanted it to end this way.
(you made me your villian–
I took the shape of the words you left unsaid,
and in their absense became brighter than the force of your soul).
you spent years asking me to write
the final page,
gloss the finish you couldn’t
(the beginnings that sprouted
from the pages I burned
are more beautiful than I
ever could’ve put to words).
my last gift to you.
-the smell of his skin keeps her alive, in those small moments before the dawn breaks when she wants nothing more than to let the breath rattle from the depths of her soul until there is not even a whisper. He is there, in those moments, and his hand is brushing her waist, and his chest is pressed against her so tight that all she can do is breathe. Steady now, in and out. Steady now, follow the rhythm of his heart beat.
Every time he said: holy ghost,
all I could hear was: holocaust.
In this genocide,
my heart was only the casualty.
(my heart was the only one).
The future is building beneath my skin,
cells stitching together to form an unforgettable
heartbeat that will change the direction of the world.