rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out.
She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk
or camomile, paced all night.
She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium
and rose oil hot baths; and only talked
to those friends who made her laugh.
No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness
like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine
frothing, drowning she fought
for breath.
She tried counting her blessings.
She put on the lost smile, pretended.
She made consciously positive statements
about herself, about others. No-one knew.
She went to happy places, spent time with good people.
She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night
kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness.
Sometimes, now, even after all these years
words needle her memory, but that is the stitching
pulling, snagging.
Soon there will only be a scar.
No getting over it.
Just a mend to staunch the bleeding.
Sue Foster