I have written of my private guilt, of the funeral
I hold in my chest for the child I will lose
but I see a spark, I let threads grow between us
our own world untouched by abuse we share
I see you fight back against that sadness
I see you vocalise in ways I never did, I let
my anger eat away until it came out in bottles
and in blood. But I had no-one to believe me
nobody safe to speak to, who did not betray me
and we don’t have our holidays, our home
we don’t yet have the escape I dream of daily
but I am here – I am here. You deserve so much
that I never could have, and I hope to save you
if from a distance, if in weekend breaks
in shopping trips, secret emails and craft days
give you things I never had, alleviate the guilt
that crushes my chest when you whisper
that you wish I could be your mother, instead


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