I was seventeen when the kids mum came in,
too young for the life already beginning.
Within months there was a baby on the way,
and I knew right then I weren’t built to run away.
Old school, daft pride, call it what you like,
I worked till my hands felt twice my size.
Flat, then a house, then more little feet,
two girls and a boy, our chaos complete.
There were good days, I won’t lie through my teeth,
laughing at nothing, skint but still breathing.
Over a decade of memories stuck in my chest,
three grown up kids from the mess and the best.
But I know what drink does, I’ve seen that film before,
watched it rot the walls and crawl under doors.
When it started taking hold and I knew where it led,
I took the kids and chose their future instead.
That weren’t me being heartless, that was me being scared,
of them raising a parent who wasn’t really there.
I’d lived that story, I knew every page,
and I’d be fucked before I handed them the same cage.
Then came the wrong one, short lived, sharp teeth,
looked like a dream but dreams can deceive.
A party I’d planned, people packed in the room,
then rape got said and it blew like doom.
Police at the door, my name dragged through shit,
bail round my throat like a chain that fit.
But truth stood up, even her own blood spoke,
her mate backed me too, and the lie finally broke.
Then another lie, a baby that weren’t,
more smoke from a fire that already burnt.
After that, yeah, I went cold for a bit,
heart in a drawer with a lock on it.
Took custody of three kids after that storm,
became mum and dad while my own head was torn.
And women became numbers, not names in my phone,
warm bodies in rooms where I still felt alone.
My mates passed digits like it was a game,
and I played along because numb feels the same.
Then came the fiery red headed one,
and something in me stopped reaching for guns.
Not actual guns, you know what I mean,
the war in my jaw and the man I had been.
I was ruthless back then, feared by a few,
mouth like a blade and no filter to use.
But she had this fire in her hands,
that calmed the bastard without making him less of a man.
She never made me small, she made the room safe,
made home feel more than bills and paint.
Families joined up, memories grew,
home gyms, daft plans, dogs, photos, all true.
Ten years without war, or that’s how it seemed,
I thought she was the end of every bad dream.
The one you grow old with, moan with, die near,
the one who makes the whole loud world disappear.
But the mask was still on, stitched into my skin,
smiling outside while the wires snapped within.
I didn’t know the words for the mess in my head,
so I handed her jobs I should have carried instead.
Manager, minder, translator of me,
reading my moods like a bad referee.
That weren’t love done right, though the love was there,
I made her hold weight that was never hers to bear.
One argument came and the door didn’t close,
it stayed open enough for the cold to come home.
She said she’d been parenting me at best,
and it still lives with its boot on my chest.
Because she weren’t wrong, and that’s the worst bit,
truth don’t need shouting when it already hits.
I can blame burnout, grief, my brain, my past,
but I left fingerprints on what didn’t last.
Then life folded in, ugly and fast,
CPTSD dragged me back through the past.
Unmasking hit hard, no brakes, no sleep,
then my brother went where no one could reach.
And in that wreckage came inked bat,
old friend, steady hands, heart bigger than that.
She held my hand when the floor gave way,
kept me here through one very black day.
Rumours came talking before we were ready,
pressure piled up on ground already unsteady.
Then we crossed that line and I wore the mask,
said I was ready, too proud to ask.
But my head was smashed glass, sharp in the light,
every small thing cut like a knife in the night.
Some stupid words, some stupid pride,
nothing major outside, but massive inside.
So I ended it quick, not soft, not kind,
panic steering the mess in my mind.
I told her I couldn’t let her drown with me,
but I hate the way I made her bleed.
So now I sit single, and rightly so,
not chasing warmth just to call it home.
I’ve loved good women and damaged them too,
held on too tight, then vanished from view.
I’ve been loved, accused, saved, left,
carried guilt like a hand round my neck.
I’ve been the protector, the problem, the storm,
the bloke with a mask who thought that was normal.
And somewhere out there, one fire still knows,
why some men don’t cry till everyone goes.
Why a heart can be full but still make a mess,
why love can be real and still not be enough yet.
I fight my own battle, rebuild what I broke,
learn who I am without mirrors or smoke.
Find the man under the damage and doubt,
the one I should’ve been before love burnt out.
And maybe one day I’ll love right, not loud,
no drowning, no masks, no pulling her down.
But for now I’ll stay here and carry the blame,
because some women leave marks no poem can name.