I made a life

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This poetry writing thing has taken me quite by surprise – I appear to be writing a few a day, at a rate I haven’t since I was an angsty, angry teenager. (The type to write about feeling forlorn, perhaps?)

Some of them I’ve decided not to publish, hence not sharing one yesterday, but I’m aware that this is my own little tiny piece of the internet, and there aren’t many of you waiting on the edge of your seats to see more posts from me!

As I mentioned previously, I’ve got myself a subscription to Writers’ Forum magazine, and I’m still coming back to the prompts I saw in there earlier this week; the next prompt I’m sharing was ‘a first or last breath’.

I made a life.

I discovered another person, inside me
hearts in time and a tiny dance
that swam like our magic, secret world, I held this knowledge tight
until the day my body reached a limit
and an instinct to tear our one to two
that, spoken by the universe, we could not halt
took over
and the world that he inhabited
suddenly
and glacier slow
became a whole new world
apart
from me.

A push, a pull, and life was there
atop of me where once within
and fury filled a face unhappy with this change
of situation
life, but not yet living,
yet
until
a heave of bird like, butterfly chest
breath
creating life so true.

My heart broke
rebuilt
soared
all
in one moment
made anew.

A silver line that binds
my soul to his
stretched ever thinner as he learns to fly
from my soft, love feathered nest
my pride outshining sorrow
as he climbs towards a full grown self
no longer part of me
this journey we’re both on
takes separate paths
as it should be.

 

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Dirty secrets

When I was 16 I had two periods within a few months where I spent a week or so in hospital.

Both occasions I was very lucky – far more so than I realised at the time. The first was during my GCSE’s when, instead of doing my exams with my friends, I opted for the far more dramatic path of developing Meningitis and almost dying. I spent what I think was around a week in hospital in a private room, and remember very little about it other than my doctor being Italian, and my brother doing impressions of the night I was brought in when I was basically dead, which he pretended to find hilarious so he didn’t have to admit he was frightened.

(Side note; Meningitis sucks, you might not get the rash – I didn’t – check out other symptoms here and get the bloody vaccination if it’s offered, particularly if you’re off to uni, it’s not just babies, and 17 years later I still have lingering after effects – and I HAD the vaccination!)

The second time was a few months later when – in the spirit of grabbing life with both hands (and to make my shaved head and leather jacket aesthetic work), I bought a crappy old motorbike and promptly crashed it, parking it upside down on top of myself – the accident itself left me bruised but not seriously hurt, but three days later my appendix ruptured and my Mum had another late night rush to the hospital to get me treated (though initially we both thought I had period pain and was just being dramatic!)

 

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*Not my motorbike, but the one that 16 year old me would have chosen if I could, probably…

 

The first time I was in hospital, and in the weeks following, I got really into daytime TV – watching a lot of ‘This Morning’ type shows and awful documentaries that showed sad people doing sad face about sad things, or makeover shows, that kind of thing.

The second time I didn’t have my own TV, and didn’t have any money to rent one, which is what they did in hospitals then (do they still do that? Is that still how it works?!) and was on a ward with lots of lovely old dears who were, like me, post-surgery for various things, and we all had many hours of quiet time to tolerate between visiting hours. I finished the one book that had been brought in very quickly, and was B.O.R.E.D.

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The lady in the next bed had a HUGE stack of magazines, and when she realised I had nothing to entertain me she passed them over – and it was all trashy things like Take a Break, Chat and Pick Me Up – and  initially she handed them over saying “I doubt the stories are your kind of thing, but the crosswords might help you while away some time” and that’s where I started, but once I’d done those I read some of the stories, then all of the stories, then was thrilled when a lady at the far end of the room had some more so we could trade!

 

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LOOK AT ALL THE JUICY STORIES!

 

Thus began my deeply ingrained love of trash.

Trash TV  and trash magazines – generally of the ‘true life story’ flavour rather than celebrity – and this now includes made-for-TV movies on the Hallmark channel – are where I turn when I’m feeling glum, when I’m poorly, when I’m lonely, when I have PMT, when it’s Wednesday evening and my kids are with their Dad, when I want a long soak in the bath, when I can’t concentrate on a book, when I have a deadline I should be meeting, basically whenever I can make an excuse to myself to indulge.

I am teased mercilessly for this by those close to me, and try to hide my dirty habits, but however many times I pretend that I’m classy, read classic literature and have a love of opera, I still pick up a copy of Take a Break most weeks, and have long since stopped pretending it’s for the puzzles.

So there you have it – my dirty secret is out! Who’s with me? Share your dirty secrets below – whether it’s owning a collection of My Little Pony figurines or actually keeping up with the Kardashians, I know I’m not alone in my shameful habits!