He took a piece of me.
He took the peace of me,
And, my God, Father, I need it back.
Peace - Oh, I remember you.
You endless summer of Lego adventures.
Daytime TV with Gran and her dentures
in a glass, and we’d laugh.
Peace - You made my sides sore and my face hot
from laughing. God, I used to laugh, so loud, a lot.
Peace - You warm bath.
You tranquil home planet, so tiny yet vast.
You safe cosy world all of my choosing,
and Mum’s cooking and Dad’s snoozing,
when all was okay,
and we all believed it would stay that way.
Until the day he took away that piece of me.
The peace of me.
I miss you.
I miss me.
This is not at all the poem I just sat down to write. I’d planned to express a fierce battle cry, but instead these gentle words fell out of me like some kind of creative sneeze. I was surprised and slightly frustrated, but I went with it. It has left me quite still. I thought I was doing pretty good in my recovery but clearly, this poem exercise has illuminated an unrest within me, that I guess I need to stop and listen to. Healing is a
journey, not a destination. I’ll just keep going.