dear john

dear john,

today I wanted to carve the words
carve them into my skin, so
all could see
what I am

when we spoke, had you asked, I might have told of the holes - I carve - inside,
maybe you could have seen the ardent slice ripped out, to quietly lay at your deeply restless feet.
but all it touched was your breath, passing backwards in your constant cool drifting words.

had you understood my voice –
could you have heard?
known my songs are all written for you?

did I tell you?
of bloodstained views on woodgrain hall floors – knee in my back, fists gripping long hair,
of the stripes of our walls getting closer just before they turned black.
or was it you who told me?
of the view from mum’s hand standing in doorways –
watching, blocking escape.

dear john,

should I have warned you? of trusting too young, and of pain, and fear, and of blood, sometimes first –
and of tears locked in rooms, could this have saved you?

I would have saved you – you know, taken your blows, swallowed your bitter bruises, your raw pain,
and sent you away whole – if only I’d found you.

dear john,

even now that you’re here, I've lost parts of you. and no longer can I wrap you in blankets.
I can’t find your song or your bruises. so I keep carving these slices of me to make us both whole,
but your restless feet walk by them with your words always drifting backward at me.

dear john,

today
I wanted to carve the words
into my skin
so all could see
what
I am.