My loneliness

Isn’t a cavern that needs to be filled

But pockets

Exquisitely tight

And treacherous

That beg to be discovered

And explored

It’s the penny wish at the bottom of the well.

It’s the moth in the dark

Who’s envy of the light

Stinks of desperation

And banishment

It’s the speck of confetti

From a carnival you never went to

Now stuck to the sole of your shoe

In-between the mud and dog shit.

It’s the language you can’t decipher

Spoken behind you on the bus 

That you tune out.

It’s the hidden message in the cracking

Dark snowstorm

Of an untuned TV channel

In 1993

It’s the stubby lipstick 

In a dark drawer

You forgot you had.


I can’t remember the last time I had a spoken meaningful conversation with someone I don’t live with.

I neither jest nor exaggerate when I proclaim I have not one friend outside the confines of my handheld internet.

I’m breaking

& Unbroken

& Broken

I haven’t had the touch, laughter, words nor silences of in the flesh friendship for nearly 15 years. 

I have long ago lost the ability to interact with any semblance of normality with life. With people.

My existence is awkward. Painful. Stuttered.


& Lonely.
I am a ghost.


And as she sleepily suckles in lazy rhythm, her eyelashes tickling their sun stained cheeks you reflect.  Sprawled across you, their fingers in lyrical twitches to the song of sleep, play soaked feet claiming your nearest available limb.  The fluttering punch of their heart that through luck or fate or cosmic bollocks has aligned atop of yours.  You reflect.  The pulsating fury that claimed your veins is now the puddle of tears that smudge away the punctuation of your regret.   Breath in.  Breath out. Breath.  I love you, you whisper.  Words sloppy and wet like rain drops or bird shit. You inhale them in their sleep as your heart aches with the ode to your  remorse.  Minutes pass and then the latch breaks, just for this, to say “love you more mama” .  And bamf.  Just like that, they’re asleep again. Just like that, you’re a little more whole again.

Post-modern dickheads

When your child has driven you up the fucking wall all morning…… But then it’s nap time and they actually sleep, flopped out on you and you try and think about everything they do from their point of view and thus feel like an awful parent.  You’re no longer sure which is the rational reality, the reactive you or the reflective you. One powered by anger and irritation and the other by guilt and self loathing.
I’m a firm believer in living reality and keeping it real, regardless of the negatives and positives that occur.  You can’t live each moment in some constructed idealism.  It’s like, if you constantly create situations for your child you rob them of the ability to create their own.  If you’re constantly socially, mentally and emotionally engaging and directing them in activities they don’t discover their inner independence and creativity. Because life can be boring and lonely and that’s okay. No matter how loved you are you can’t always have 100% of someone’s  attention. It’s real life.  You can’t pretend it isn’t. It’s in those moments they discover themselves .
The world could end and you could remember that I wouldn’t blow bubbles for you because I was hanging up washing or that I got cross when you walked across something twice that I’d asked you four times not to. Or that you wanted to constantly feed and for a short while I said no, later. That I yelled when you did something I’d told you not to.
Or maybe you’ll remember I gave you my crisps because you wanted them, ib didn’t bollock you when you smooshed and grabbed my dinner with your hands, i kissed your booboos better, I cradle you whilst you slept, i whisper Dr suess to you in the dark, i pretend to be clean up pretend wee from your toys, I count your breaths when you’re poorly… That i said sorry.  That I love you.
 You can’t be extra tolerant/benign/understanding every minute just in case it’s the last or your last or theirs.  That’s just not real. If you have to tell yourself how to react or think in every given situation then you’re not actually reacting or thinking, it’s all premeditated faux realism, it’s not living. It’s not being. Forcing yourself to be something or someone you’re not in actions or words is actually delivering a disservice to those we are trying to protect from seeing our true selves, by not trusting them enough to display our inner ugliness; our inner human. To not allow them to learn how to interact and react with it. hi
Because, humans are beautiful.  And they’re ugly.  Would they be one without the other?  Is it not our vulnerability to be ugly that makes us beautifully human?
When does the filter become a whole new person that we try to contain ourselves within? A perfect shaped hole but a human shaped peg.
Is this guise a better humanity or is it that which merely erodes true humanity?
When we try so hard to be what we believe is a better person/spouse/parent that we erase our true self. We try too hard to become what we’re told is psychologically appropriate and beneficial for others. Surely there is no right without wrong?  No beauty without ugliness? No calm without tempest?
If you have to try so hard to be a certain way, behave a certain way and  live a certain way then is it even real? 
Life in an emotional straightjacket.
What if….
We need to be wrong.
It’s okay to fuck up?
It’s okay to be horrible and mean and awful when the albeit trivial moments and actions of others momentarily overwhelm us?
It’s okay to make others feel bad when they piss you off
Because then, and only then, do we get to reflect. To regret. To apologise. To appreciate. To organically adjust our behavior.
It’s living. It’s being. It’s….. 
Because we see and hear and feel it’s impact. On others and through them ourselves.
They, granted sometimes it’s unintentional, push and push until we explode.  They feel sad.  We then feel bad for exploding.  
It doesn’t change what they did or what we did.  It’s not ideal. Nobody wants their child to remember them as the pissed off monster. Nobody willingly wants to feel pissed off at their child.
What if we realise they’re just being a child and that’s okay.
What if we realise we were just being a not-child and that’s okay too?
Because life isn’t an unconditional fucking fairytale and trying to create one for a child’s benefit is robbing them of growing coping mechanisms and understanding of others. Of life.
To dispel the myth that we’re not perfect and neither are they.
That there is no perfect.
Sometimes we try so hard to be the adult that we forget to be a person too, which can give children an unrealistic expectation of others tolerance for them and a total lack of understanding on how they’re pissing you off.  That sometimes, we overreact. That we’re sorry.
Yes I’m a mum.  I’m also a human.  Some days I fail at being both.
If today was my last day, I hope they’d remember me in-spite of my failings and not because of them.
That I could be horrible.
That I try to change but can only be me.
That I love them.
That sorry isn’t just a sound it’s also a thought  and a touch.  A silence. 
That we’re all essentially dickheads.