Bad Days

Don’t tell me that you’ve not
had days like these,

when sun’s come up
and you’ve been

dead in blankets,
breathing dark

as sky’s blue,
shines a fist of morning hours.

Don’t tell me that you’ve never felt
your insides twist like plastic bags

your heart hammer
in its rags, your breath thicken.

Don’t tell me that the world is safe
that nothing bad will ever happen,

no ones ever left you,
that you’ve never felt

your centre crack, but –
don’t tell me that there aren’t days

to lift up in like open parks.

Where sun hangs
a golden charm – and you

won’t feel it on your skin.
Don’t tell me that sometimes

you won’t hear beats,
or cups of tea or soft sheets and

people that you love
who love you back.

Don’t tell that there’s no point.
Or tell me that –

but don’t tell it me forever.