I am only talking to you while I’m breathing
and I count the hours since I last heard your voice.
(59 hours and 23 minutes).
I know you are a figment:
finely detailed, coloured to the boarders but not over,
of my imagination.
Get me out of here, take me from this hard, real place.
A real place with my very real family,
(I struggle to meet their needs, to be enough)
and a past of hope and pain and triumph.
I am so worn from the effort of compromise
And the lies I have told myself to make it bearable.
On the telephone, by message, we remember ourselves, through each other,
although we are cracked,
before we were broken.
Honesty is ease,
together we are responsible for nothing.
We share our stories without editors, invalidators
and we are appeased.
I look at my children
and every beautiful family moment we have shared.
I look at my phone
(our struggles are miles and miles apart)
And the lies I have told myself to make running to you an option
Janine is a happily married mother of four boys. She teaches. She writes. She travels. She cries in planes.