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Fifteen.

Neatly folded paper,

My mother’s name in ink,

And underneath,

“Took her own life

While the balance of her mind was disturbed”.

Jesus!

My silent discovery,

My secret history,

Too much to be shared with me.

Shattering our ability,

To care or be cared,

Delivering anxiety,

Messing with my mind.

Ripples of insanity,

Echoes through lost time,

Suffocating sadness,

Stirred by anger, fear and pain,

Desperate emotions,

Buried deep in hidden shame.

Eruptions of anger,

Sobbing desperation shouts,

Trying to work this out,

Taking something from no sense,

Silently.

And there is no reason,

But her own messed up story,

More layers of secrecy,

Dovetailing her fragility,

Choking our ability,

To act as a family,

Ensuring we are functional,

But emotionally fucked.

Desperately seeking solace

From this not to be discussed loss.

Broken hearted splinters,

Pressing from inside,

That poke and point and tear,

Ripping up my mind,

Feeding my insecurity,

As her history and our tragedy,

Echoes on through time.