mum would worry,
it’s what she did best
next to loving like the world was ending
as she would look to me and say –

“why do you write your pain
with quill-dipped black tears
scraped across the page of your face
leaving scars that make me cry?”

and i would respond in quiet words –

“some songs are supposed to hurt –
they ring out best from broken bell towers
as shrill notes escaping like pied pipers
leading haunted child-pain poison
leeched from a heavy, leaden, bitten body
leaving an empty husk ready to be filled
with an embracing kind of lighter life.”

mum would smile soft in sadness –

“i see the beauty in your need
but it still makes me want to sob in silence
knowing that hurt heals your hurt
and that sometimes a bone must be broken
to mend in a straighter, stronger way.”