My gift.

Sometimes,

the only thing that I have to give to you,

is me.

Cracked and fragile;

pain oozing from dark places

that I can’t even see.

But, you do.

You see,

and you don’t flinch.

You catch me when I fall;

tenderly you bind me up;

stuff love in the holes,

and stop me from leaking out of

my memories.

How do you craft such a strong

net from

my brokenness?

Talk to me of old love.

We talk of young love

as if it’s the only love that matters.

Those heady days fade.

Eventually.

No, talk to me about old love.

With its gentle patina of well-worn comfort.

Of another, knowing your thoughts,

knowing what makes your heart race with joy,

laying down dreams so you can find yours.

Talk to me of choosing the same one,

over and over,

and over;

even when it’s hard.

And one day to finally have our hands untwined by

death.

– Talk to me of old love.

Stepping Stones.

He was not afraid of the walls around her heart.

Her defences were not to be conquered;

but gently dismantled.

One rock at a time.

Until the light shone into her darkest places,

and she could find her way out.

– Stepping Stones.

Things we must teach our daughters.

There is a type of man

with a heart as grey,

and dreary as a damp winter’s day,

who will compel you to

dim your light;

monochrome your kaleidoscope of colours,

in order to feel like a real man.

This is not Love.

No matter how it is dressed up.

He is a fatal disease that will

consume

you

from the inside out,

until the only thing left of you is a

husk.

A ghostly imprint of the

masterpiece

you were created to be.

Run from him.

Do not look back.

You are so much more.

– Things we must teach our daughters.

My love.

I looked across the room and there you were. Even then I saw that you were broken in the same places that I was.

For a brief moment it gave me hope that I was not alone.

Our scars linked hands that day.

How beautiful it has been with you at my side.