I imagined he would turn around
Right there in the middle of the Sydney Harbor Bridge
Return to me and whisk me off my feet
Tell me I am beautiful and everything he had ever dreamed of
I can taste his lips
I can see his eyes
Imprinted on my flesh

Anyway, I digress.

Did it happen? Did he turn around. Did he return to me
Did he whisk me off my feet

My triggers are being fired off
Left, right and friggin centre –
And I actually don’t give a fck

a wounded piece of me refuses to
heed to my encouragement and be
healed, like a pupping chasing a ball,
so my wound returns again and again
returns to pain, returns to be felt
to hurt, to prolong my suffering
and so I allow it to be
knowing that a wound over time
will eventually
harden into
a scar

I question decisions past 

And empathize with the duress

Under which they were made 

If I could do it all again 

I would love that child 

In so much pain

It will never be washed away 

But we can be glad 

That tomorrow promises 

A brand new day