Honestly, I’m trying so hard.
There are days when I can feel the world crumbling around me.
And the nights are lonely without you sleeping next to me.
But I know that I would be lonelier with you than I am going to be without you.
So I have to keep going on.
Some days I feel more alive than others,
But most of the time I simply feel dead.
The days are dull and they run into one another like watercolour paint.
I am never going to be a mother,
Out of fear that I cannot wipe the tears in their eyes,
I will be wiping my own instead.
Out of fear that I cannot get them out of bed in the morning,
I cannot even get out of it myself.
I will not be able to protect them from high spaces,
Or hold their head above water,
I will be too busy allowing myself not to drown.
I think sadness must be in my blood,
It is a disease,
Threatening my every chance of happiness.
I don’t think I can ever be happy.
Newborn, skull like chalk, chipped away;
Chiselled by an unrelenting, iron fist.
Retreat back inside your mother, child.
She will keep you safe.
She will take her warm hands and mould you like clay.
She will tell you that you can be soft.
Over the sound of her lullabies, child,
They will drill out the multiples of three.
Hack away at your brain,
Leaving nothing but circuits.
Grade your ability to memorise and retain,
Until you’re left running on autopilot.
Down the factory line,
Stripped, cloned, lobotomised.
They will carve you out of stone, with your own barcode,
Ready to be bought and sold,
Bought and sold,
Bought and sold.
You left a bitter taste in my mouth,
like prozac on my tongue.
I don’t get those thoughts anymore.
But what scares me is that every time I see a railroad,
The urge is still buried there somewhere.