And if you’d have waited,
just another six months,
I know where we’d be.
 
On that boat in Ullswater,
eating gingerbread in Grasmere,
if you’d have waited.
 
Wandering through doors of Wordsworth,
building daisy chains in the graveyard,
that’s where we’d be.
 
Treading the paths of Ambleside,
camping in an undersized tent,
if you’d have waited.
 
Then, your house,
to your bed, each other’s arms,
is where we’d be.
 
And we’d be having the sex,
all you couldn’t wait for.
If you’d have waited,
that’s where we’d be.

About the author:
Holly Bars is a Leeds poet, currently studying MA Creative Writing at the University of Leeds. She has been published in The Moth, Stand, The London Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and more. Her debut collection, "Dirty", centred on surviving child sexual abuse, is published with Yaffle Press. 

Foreword
This poem is nothing like the one above,
Dear Reader,
I write for you, and me.
Together we share.
In light and in darkness. And the rest.
I will be selfish a moment in that Western sense,
Laying all out my woes to see,
Bless you for reading and let us heal pains through words.
 
A palette of pain I shall lay down, its tale is writ.
As I wake today, crumpled like paper,
do not try to iron me out.
My creases are dark, damp, stale,
something is sour too.
Oh, it is me. What a shame I say to myself.
 
Do not try to ease me with your positivity,
That toxic type, but you mean well. I am guilty too.
We all want to rescue.
You. And you. You, and you. And me.
 
Mild, Severe, Intermittent.
What is your score, RAW I answer,
One – to – ten. Oh, I will not say TEN.
Fear of Judgement, no, no, no,
I learnt that. I learnt my lesson fast.
How may I express myself in this agony? A seven will do.
Do you want pain relief. Oh yes, I do.
 
Deformed, malleable, throbbing, sharpened blades,
You loud thing.
Yet I cannot localise you. You little thug n thief of JOY.
I cancelled two concerts because of you and much more.
OH, much, much, much, MORE. That is a poem on its own account.
 
Wait, test results are in. Cerebral, sterile, stark.
Most of all, potent!
Paper, you are though in reality.
The INK is simply too black.
And RED. Today, tomorrow. the next.
 
Each phrase careful, only to be more careful,
each number with its specific meaning and power,
power over every aspect of my day.
None of it fits though - does it nurse? She has compassion at least.
YOU NEED as Specialist in an area they do not exist. Oh Dear. I speak.
I want to scream aloud.
The DOC shows compassion my way, usually, on their good days.
Which of course helps this craze settle to less of a craze.
Ahhh though, here we go again. OHHHH. OHHHH. And OHHHH.
This should be a song. The song of Meg with a sore leg. The song of Meg with her bad head. The song of Meg with a sore toe, The song of Meg with all but woe.
 
Parameters, definitions, distinctions, guidelines, rules. They keep popping up.
This millimetre, this fat sparing, this blockage, this cell, this adhesion. This bile.
This blood, this heme iron, this transfusion, this infusion, this suture, this calcium score, this d-dimer is too high.
 
This, this, that. this sodium, this potassium, this gas, this acid base, this pulmonary nodule, this heartbeat, this ECG, this ECHO, this lack of oxygen, this gene. OH, and that gene too.
 
This b12, this lack of paper and ink, this DARK INK, and feelings, and too many feelings, and oh this history, this mental illness - is it real or not? Should we see? Who is she? What is her background, is she of wealth, is she poor, is she smart or a nark? Who is her family? Who is she berating us to on her phone? Let us see please. Who is this fine mess? It is ok, I am just me, just do not tick me off today because I can be scathing. Just like you. But I am in PAIN, so watch it. And I am at SEVEN.
 
And there is more, this overload, this foul bowel.
This stuck food, this piece of me,
this gastric issue, this reflux, this migraine, this tissue,
this medicine with its side effects, or advantageous effects,
this blood pressure, is up, is down, is around,
this oxygen level, this low temperature. This high one. This in between state.
This sickness, this malady, this illness, this condition, this fake, this real, this ordeal.
This infection, this antibiotic, this fungal killer, this wart medicine, this anti-acid, this cutterage, this biopsy, this burning of skin, this mole, this growth, this enema, this cream, this drawer full of creams. The pharmacy in my bathroom looks strange.
These asthma meds, these Band-Aids, these antiseptics, these antihistamines, these Panadol, these Maxalon, this ibuprofen, these vitamins, these burn creams. These skin barrier lotions, this chemo cream, this laxative, these fibre drinks, these liver tabs, these migraine patches, this heel balm and b12 injection ampoules. These pads, these Movicol sachets, these sedatives – this POUTPOURRI!
This pain medicine, this CBD oil, this opioid like stuff, or that, this nutritional deficiency, this dark place, these necessary tests - on no end roads. On paper trails. You INK take away my holidays. You INK are both saviour and persecutor. You INK are the western world with its joys and sorrows. You bring me thankfulness and you bring me sorrow.
 
So dear INK I am no apologist today for my nasty letters at times, my poems, my questioning my anger, my disappointment, my depression, my sadness, my relief, my grief. It felt good to speak up, and I warn you and I warn you again. Do not mess with this agony bag. Accept and help her. This, that, that, and this. Oh, and this and there is more.
 
So how do we heal, with ink all around - with black INK?
She is not one problem, she is COMPLEX. She is a true Zebra black n white striped. And paper sheets and paper skin, resting on her paper bed. Her wayward cells, and bones, blood, and tissues speak as they do.
 
Mystery Ink. You are a shape shifter - you are.
But do not you dare shift the blame to me, dear INK,
For this paper thin, skin. Is what it is, and it is NOT yours.
 
And dearest symptoms why must you stay and then hide. And then scream loud.
I am sensitive to noise. You want to be heard and I hear you. I hate you and I love you, but I still wish you would find a place of your own. Where you really belong.
 
Prying eyes, blind eyes, action plans, non-actions, withering, chronic disease management plans, hydrotherapy, physiotherapy, specialist appts. Wheelchairs, and mobility aids.
Break-through pain. OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH.
Say it, say it, speak. I resent your INK, I do, I do.
Pain suffering, illness, bleakness, inertia, cruel joke, funny guy!
Good-bye sophisticated life. You did get close.
I will not be nice today, I will not be helpful, be accommodating.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
 
Our cells are great little workers and then they are not.
Some of them live in complete darkness and
Do plan to take over the HOST, which is you. Beware ok.
 
I am well fed up with paper and ink.
Thoughts views, sayings, all words, all descriptions,
Opinions.
Let my creased paper body, and my creased paper bed.
Go back to its suffering, it does it well.
Be testament to my human spirit, pure as it can be.
 
Laugh bone and cackle too,
Do it louder for all to see,
Why don’t you?
Stay abusive Nerve, you will anyways do as you wish.
Or keep sleepy, slow, and lethargic.
Nervous rigid muscle, keep on keeping, tighten your reins.
Brain, oh ball and chain,
vice-on-my-head – your thoughts did this.
My vice – listening and caring for you all – too much.


It is easier to cave into it all. And that I have learnt
Brings me to a five instead of a seven, through gritted teeth though.
 
Oh, dam you PAIN. Really the next life will be easier.
That is certain. God has promised me.
 
Oh Medicine, INK, Oh Malicious World,
You are here and you are amoebic,
You crawl, slither, froth, and bite,
At this crossroad whereby vitality, peace and other,
ran for the green safe hills.
To a stronger paper-bark shelter. Indigenous and safe.
 
Navigate me out, it is not too hard, will you?
I am a good person. Despite how I sound on here.
Of wretched love hate dysphoria. Yes, DOC, you have it too.
It is not only ME.
You are but human. And I am at times not.
Medicine. Inc.
INK.
Bless you, you too pain.

They insist that her place is where soot sweeps the flagstones. Her limbs wince and grimace
all the way down the stairs. She can see them preening,
smug as ostriches;
But her fingers are still stiff, and
jewel-less.
As their excitement chirps louder, her swollen toes chime in the garden. And suddenly
there’s a sharp frisson of something in the air. She’s fizzing as if she were inside a coupe
glass, clinking against the promise of the glass-topped dressing table.
In her tight chest, excitement swells pumpkin, until
under the glitz of champagning chandeliers, she cuts a more confident stride.
In satin, she steps, and steps, until she’s a whirl of silvered windows, pearly;
yet threatening as teeth.
At the strike, she’s
seared
panicked
clenched.
She’s slipped
Down
Down
Down
Once again, her squeaking companions brush at the floor. Her ankles throb and ache
as loud as her heart.

Vita is life, our will lives in us,
Bee-ing outside increases our vitality.
Our will to live increases outdoors,
in gardens bright with blooms and dew,
flower to petal a tale is woven,
As we notice the circles and cycles of nature
Death is nearer, so we recoil a bit.
Nature’s beauty is there also to save us.
In the morning hue.
 
She, The Queen, A monarch
She knows her life-force.
As she sits in this sheen, a court convenes,
Her men toil and spin
While SHE flaunts her golden-violet rhythms
busy bee your tireless zest
dawn to dusk is collection time,
for her, translucent silken buds
glisten, wide arms open.
 
She drops her chin, drawing up nectar.
wildflowers flirt swaying in tune.
on a tapestry breeze, criss-crossing winds
sway the bottlebrushes who blush in an,
Australian blaze, humid thick.
 
They gathered their milk for Mother.
next to some wild carrots,
plump Queen sits, eyelids shut,
surveying though, each heartbeat of her hive
approval is met by vital signs alive, aligned.
In a wilderness cool, yet oozing warmth.
glory of life we see.
in both toil and freedom, we dream.
sweet in my mouth and thy Queen’s,
this jelly heals all beginnings.
and ends,
a rose sun sinks another horizon.

(Rain, Auvers, by Vincent van Gogh).
 
​His tears teeter a threat
 to spill, unsteady as the wobble of wounds and joy
within the same throat. Petals
descend in sunshine-
 
 He swallows hard; gazes out to the expansive sky, tilting his head towards the sun.
 
Crows’ feet never get to develop their splatter towards
his temples. Wings muddle
frantic
 
as petrichor mixed with suffering
caws and caws at him: so big
it fills up the whole horizon.
 
Hushed rainfall brings slashes of brief
 relief
 cut into canvases: Calm before the sting. He watches the cadmium rippling
 of wheat stems. They're swaying like shifts between disappointment and elation: vulnerable as humans
 
 like him.
 
He shutters insomnia-stung eyes. Such yellows against his lids are home: They beam, contrasting with incomparably fresh blues and sweet
twittering birdsong.
 
He longs for sleep.
 
 Sunflower-bursts in indigo
night.