Post Natal Depression

If you took my head in your hands and shook it, you could hear the rusty nails and broken glass rattling around.

If you look inside my chest, my heart is not pumping blood: thick, purple poison runs through my veins. I can almost taste it.

Petrol tears.

Trickery has beheaded Reason. He holds his bloody head up high as a warning to Trust and Love.

If you could hold my mind in your hands, it would sneer at the attached, shackled body.

Serpent. Hooded witch. Possessed mob.
A seamless shape-shifter.

If you open my mouth, there is no voice to be heard. Doubt severed my vocal chords with a blunt blade.

Silent screams.

Fear has butchered Hope. He skinned her alive and rubbed vinegar on the wounds.

She weeps. She lies raped and left for dead.

She bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

But she still is.

You keep her heart beating.

When you dance to Post Man Pat, her blood keeps pumping around her ruined body. When you squeal with delight at the washing machine, her breathing becomes easier. When you laugh hysterically at my fake burps, her eyes open slightly. When you get ridiculously excited at the prospect of eating an apple, her smile becomes a genuine possibility.

She will thrive.