discovering the point of me

inktuition the point of me

I’ve been apologising for oh so long,

as I explain and cringe my choices,

that I lost the point of me.

Born, I was too much crying,

too many nappies, too much bother

to feel there was a point to me.

A child, I was told I was far too messy,

warned to be good and stay quiet.

There was no point to me.

Teenaged, I was never allowed my style,

was asked did I think I looked good in that.

I cried and searched the point to me.

Studied, I gained diplomas, degrees,

which I thought would make me whole.

Looking back, I wonder the point in that.

Grown up, and business gave me power

to manage, to lead, to create.

My star waned: what was the point of me.

A mother, a new life with other fertile ones

I thought would give me meaning.

Playground bitches destroyed the point of me.

Stressed, I feel the yawn of my heart.

Pleasing others from dawn to dusk:

who would ever make a point of that?

Broken, a life with a faded façade

and scaffolding all torn away.

I start to vision the death of me.

Darkened, I think of ways to loosen

my grip on this mortal soil.

What the **** was the point of me?

Soul-bound, I’m saved from today’s maudlin.

Tomorrow I’m not so sure.

What’s the point of staying here?

Awakening, I take a daily breath

that surprises me each morning.

The only thing that keeps me alive

is the point one day I’ll believe in.


why I fear a tut and a sigh

I can sense it coming: the second I do something

that brings you displeasure.

For want of cliché, I see your face grow dark. Your mouth

becomes taut. I feel the pressure

in my tight little tummy.

I cast around quick for what I’ve done wrong.

Was it my socks that were too separate?

Bedroom too scruffy? Homework left undone?

Or was it my breathing that annoyed you so.

You couldn’t bear noise

when you had one of your heads.

The tiptoeing I did gave me fabulous pointes,

to the stage I could walk without leaving a sound.

But what stretched the bow

to the arrow of your aim

was your tut and your sigh

like the end of world was nigh

just cos I’d pulled out my ribbon

or opened the curtains wrong.

Your rage would instantly shut out

any view that would challenge your own.

You felt the right and the need to shout

at those who needed you most.

A sigh could be on its own

but a tut would precede 7, 8, 9

and then 10. The scariest number of all,

said in the slowest of ways

as a countdown to lash out and hit

if I didn’t shape up, pipe down and sit.

And so to hear your sigh, years after the first

when I haven’t done exactly

as your vision dictates,

a terror strikes the heart of me,

takes my thighs

as my confidence vibrates.

I have no memory of what it was like

but I sense it in faces who see me with spite.

I hear it in their tut

I shudder with their sigh.

I hope this memory is a healing goodbye.

An imagined apology from my abusive mother

My love in life was seeing the world.

To be precise, it was sunning my soul.


I came alive on my summer holiday:

my skin could cope with all those rays.


My problem was, I couldn’t see beyond

those speckles of sun. I was just too fond


of easy-bronzed skin to see that my girls

were curled to wizened, before-their-time whirls.


A strip of hurt they might just tolerate

but, in later years, they felt victims of Fate.


It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t really know

that love and abuse could be bedfellows.


I thank the wisdom of my first-girl is called

to cancel the bits that left her appalled.


She learnt from me how to be what I’m not:

she’s now reaching out to heal what I hurt.