Poem: 'Recounting Tortured Love'

What appeared whilst writing 'A Prelude to Caregiving'

Sometimes, it’s best to just write without trying too hard. If I had my piano I’d play.

I can't make a lyric out of my pain
I can't make a metaphor for the snap points of strain
I can't ease the sharp nettles and thorns that strangle my throat and prevent the frustrated screams
I can't Un-stab my heart or withdraw the claw marks of nails in my palms.
Tortured love.

My throat is dry, my eyes are filmed with the salt from evaporated tears and my nose is blocked from congested snot and gulping sobs.
I can't remake the pain into a palatable recipe or a smooth echo to harmonise for someone else.
This is mine.

These are the memories that cannot be moulded. 
They're stiff, fragile, rigid, dry and yet precious, rare and unique
No, I can't change them, reshape them or make them sweeter to the taste.
They're a little funky and smell like incense or patchouli with chants.
An homage to love with its flip-side of grief
Brittle, scraping, sharp with pain and startlingly stunning in its summation of the love that was. 

Isolated from flowing narrative. 
Disenfranchised from the norm, free to form its own belonging.
A pain reimagined, just for me.
This grief is mine.

This appeared while I was writing ‘A Prelude to Caregiving: Love and Torture’ which will be published tomorrow.

If you’ve felt a similar pain or grief please ‘❤️’ LIKE the article.