When will you call? When my body is cold in the ground, or as I take my last breath? It's dark and lonely in this place, my thoughts shout and echo whisper and sneer, you're a burden no one wants you here. When will you call? I have a knife in my hand, the end is near. I see the social media posts, telling me you are there, but a phone call away, you are waiting for me to call in for tea. When will you call? you say you love me, but I don't believe you. I will not call you, I cannot call anyone, for this depression, the darkness, the blackness that holds me captive will not allow me that solace, it tells me over and over that I am not good enough not worthy of your love of time in your busy life. When will you call? Knock on my door? Do you know it could save me?
I hear steps behind me,
soft soled creeping slowly closer,
then dropping away
just like you did in our life
playing on my fears and emotions
a Chinese water torture
of anger and dread
denial and disbelief
even then I knew the truth
but hardly dared believe,
now I am moving on
breaking slowly free
but still your footsteps echo
long into the night
cutting into my sleep
a cry before dawn
© Niamh Corcoran 31/1/2016
The pellucid promise of a sunny future
turns opaque in a mist of silence
and carefully timed thrusts
screams stuttered to a halt
by a look, a smirk, a knowing
that you’re caught as surely
as a noose around your neck,
the gold band you wore so proudly
the children you love so deeply
bind you to your jailer as he waltzes
upon a trap he believes unbreakable
humming a tune only he can hear
deaf to all but his own words, blinded
by his overgrown ego; he is safe
does not notice the subtle changes
that will break the walls trapping you
he has stolen your voice claims your
body as his own but not your soul nor
the strength of spirit that will set you
free
when the price becomes too high
the knife edge seems sharper
the blade cuts deeper, each wound
bleeds brighter, longer
the noose tightens, suffocates
the world turns a nauseous
shade of blue, each breath stabs
even as it grasps
the lifeline dangles just out of reach,
held aloft by your raw and bitter
laughter, your foot on my throat
stamps and
blackness takes hold,
your apologies with your tears
fall like blood drops
to a sanitised floor
I watch through swollen eyes
as you are led away
between two policewomen
with well-practised ennui
a nurse fiddles with a drip
pats my hand in sympathy
tells me you will cause
no more trouble
but I know better
you will chase me down
the prize is not in the having
but in never letting go.
© Niamh 20/01/2015
