I am the rumble of bad news in a dark room,
I am the toilet cubicle you silently cried in,
I am the long drive home.
I am the hand on the door, the kettle, the cup.
I am the drops of blood falling to the floor, mingling with broken china,
I am the brush that sweeps.
I am the anaesthetist’s tube, the surgeon’s knife, the cold, vinyl trolley.
I am the nightmare that takes you from your children,
I am the painkiller you rely on.
I am the razor that shaves, the hair in the plughole, the floating eyelash.
I am the injection in your vein, the liquid that poisons, the fuchsia of your skin,
I am the sickness that bubbles acid in your throat.
I am the time that stands still, the child who wants to play, the unmade bed.
I am the comment on Facebook telling you your friend has died,
I am the chair she sat in.
I am your bleeding heart, your grief,
I am the pink ribbon, the bunch of flowers, the sigh of relief.
I am your guilt.
I am the buzz of the scanner, the burnt skin on your breast, the smile you put on for the nurses.
I am every single one of your worn out masks,
I am the lies you have told.
I am here to tell you the game is up;
I am the cell they might have missed.
I am the voice that says it’s not OK.