It comes with a punch-drunk stroke of bad luck,
and knocks the air out of your lungs;
your vodka windpipe burns black,
makes you breathless –
and settles in your bones.
Your body will heave a breath of dog tiredness,
And you wonder if it’s from carrying around the weight of solitude,
Or from the inexhaustible hours you keep.
the pain swells when it rains,
and in order to extract the ache you bury box-knives into your womb,
unpicking the specks of coal black infidelities freckled in your skin; its a gratifying feeling so you don’t stop until you’re bloody.
This manifestation is so physical it makes you wretch;
the bile pours out of your silent mouth in streams
– the cud of darkness un-chewable – in these moments,
you mourn the days of open-mouth honesty.
a tempest shoots through your veins and makes you breathless,
and your mind becomes a thundercloud,
your poor heart wrings tornados out of detriment and splits your honesty down the middle.
woman made of ash,
almost entirely hollow,
No, the truth was never easy to swallow;
the only way out of this one is to brave the storm,
remembering the moments when you felt whole,
Follow Natalie on Instagram @__nj.c. Find Natalie’s blog at https://personalispoliticalpip.wordpress.com/ and on Instagram @_pipblog