Rising Writers #6 – Shian Streadwick Augustine-Cain

The Fear

It made a home in my bones,

This melancholy of mine,

Replaced the marrow with thick black sludge

Leaving me unable to move most days.

What a sight I make!

Three days without sleep

And I think I’ve gone insane−

I try at night, not to imagine my headstone

Cold in the ground,

They will bury me in white.

I searched for Nirvana in the smoke,

Lungs coughing up black tar,

As my mind goes finger painting

Over my wrists.

The smoke is a beacon,

A lighthouse full of fireflies,

Out of the darkness,

I might rise.

***

A Short Reflection of Her in the Hospital

You smiled because you had to

Cheek to cheek

Dimples showing

Dressing gown on in the middle

Of the day.

Like a mental patient-

Your mother would say.

You were.

Hair takes up most of the frame

Uncombed for days

Light streams the room.

It makes you uncomfortable.

We can see it on your face.

***

A Dramatisation of Running Half Way up Constitution Hill

You are determined to run

At least

Half way

Sweat dripping from brow

You’ve not run this hard since

Year nine

The bleep test

You dropped P.E as soon as possible

Two years of constant smoking

Nights out

Ending in kebab grease

Has taken its toll.

 

You are only a quarter of the

Way up

Sweat pouring

Wheezing breaths

Dramatic sighs

 

“The half way point, I see the bench!”

The bench has been seen.

Coughing

Spluttering

You collapse on the wood.

You made it.

You will walk the rest of the way up.

To the white picket fence with the sea below.

Your Welsh dream.