Left a place, a person, a state of grace,
Not my choice, but accepting it nonethless,
Did the noble thing despite the screaming inside,
Wanted her to see me leave, to see if my leaving mattered,
But said ‘sure, it’s fine, go,’
And took myself away,
What I left behind were pieces
Which never healed over the same.
But there were five things I wanted to ask for,
But anxiety stitched my lips shut
To be seen
To be loved,
To be free
To matter
To be there.
Accolades and objects,
Achievements stacked up like treasure,
But what I wouldn’t give,
To have tried to unpick the stitches,
Blood running down my chin,
Speak my heart aloud
And have it heard
But there is silence,
Thick as the smoke I use
To sail through the bitter hours,
So six things, seven, who can say?
Sometimes one thing,
But nothing you could put in your back pocket,
Nothing, in the end, you could walk away from,
Unscathed.
MB Blissett 