queen of faff

Former secret writer. This is my rehab.


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Manchester

My heart is heavy.

 

After Peshawar, my baby was my balm.

Her warm, soft body caught my tears,

and kept me calm.

 

After Manchester, my baby is now four.

I don’t know how to speak to her about the horror

that’s reached our shore.

 

After Nice, Paris, Brussells, and many, many more,

my baby is not my balm.

She has a brother now and I

cannot shield them from such harm.

 

Aged four and one, they dance innocently

to any sound they hear.

I won’t teach them how to fear.

 

This venue, these children – it’s all as senseless as before.

No bullets this time, but the bones were no more grown,

and more faceless men keep score.

 

These small children of mine, will grow

with time,

and are home with me tonight.

 

I will teach them to dance

at every chance.

 

My heart will provide the beat.


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Peshawar

My arms are lucky.

The small body I hold is warm, not cold.

Limp, with the right kind of sleep.

 

My heart is forgetting how to beat.

 

In a world I don’t know

Day breaks with mourning and 132 empty beds.

Sons and daughters, slaughtered.

Bullets lodged in bones that are not yet grown.

 

Faceless men seek retaliation like prizes,

So the death toll rises

And the white stone steps run red.

 

My heart is lucky.

It loves this small body, which is not cold, but warm.

A mother’s balm.

She twitches as she dreams.

 

My heart is forgetting how to beat.