Suicide is subjective

I hate to hate.

It’s an all consuming tumour

that grows and deviates.

I loathe these loathings,

but my loathing’s at an eight.

I raise my score card high

and give out my bold rating

because I can’t continue placating

a lazy oaf and broken wife;

to him she went for a walk,

to me she held a knife

to her wrists and pressed down hard.

Hard enough to leave ravaged scars.

This woman, desperate, on her knees

is my mother, mother please,

save yourself from these raw feelings

and take the rope down off the ceiling.

I know that you are grieving

the woman you once were

and the man that he once was

and I know it hurts, it fucking hurts

that he thinks you went to walk.

He can’t even talk about it while

My mind shouts, it shouts enraged

that he is at a loss, completely disengaged.

You are both coming to an age

where the focus should be one-on-one,

not subtle snipes and blinkered eyes

where no one bothers to even try.

He thinks she went for a walk

and I really hate to hate

but right now I want to shake him

and wake him up with cutting words

and slit open eyes.

Steps away from the sea

isn’t going for a walk

and if you refuse to talk or

look and see

and make things better

through your own responsibility

as a husband to a sick wife

then what happens next

is round your neck

like an albatross or coarse noose

that you will never shake away or lose.

May you live with it

and may it burn with friction

from your lack of acknowledgement,

care or diction.

and may it prick and cut like little knives.

May you drown from the guilt

of your sickly wife’s actions.

This is my poor mother; mother please,

Get up off your fallen knees.

Know your worth and know your pain;

make changes so this won’t repeat again.

I hate to hate this man, my father;

for hate consumes and deviates;

but I hate this situation

and this blind, blinkered ugly state.

“He thinks she went for a walk”

spins in my sickened, breathless head.

She was walking, walking, walking, Dad,

she was walking to her death.

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Acceptance.

“We are so happy for you both.”

“We kind of had an inkling, you know.”

“We still love you.”

“Your Dad is fine with it, so laid back anyway isn’t he?”

“Now I’m a trendy Mum!”

“I know you don’t want a fuss but… we are proud of you.”

“You have good taste, you make a stunning couple.”

“We would never have stopped you being Toby’s God Mum,

it makes no difference.

You

were the only one we’d choose.”

“I always said to people there was a deep love between the two of you…”

“If anyone says anything bad I will tell them to fuck off.”

“Now Toby has two gay Aunties and he’s only one years old!”

“Now she is really part of the family.”

“I hope you’re together forever.”

“We could go on a little couples holiday, You and Ali, me and your Dad.”

And after all of this support,

words of love

and camaderie

why do I still feel so anxious and frightened?