A Lock and Key Model

Here is the key to my heart

that I clench between my knuckles

when I’m walking down alleys at night.

 

My heart stands alone beneath the street lamps

wears a winter coat

does not shake your hand.

Does not give you directions.

Does not give you it’s name

because haven’t we all found crushed fairies at the foot of our bed

and said nothing?

Haven’t we all said goodnight to our dreams?

 

Here is the key to my heart

that I left in my foster carer’s door latch

when I was fourteen

when home was the cavity inside my chest

when home was the broken space between dawn and silence.

I told my carer I’d fallen and cut myself.

She bemoaned my muddy jeans.

 

Here is the key to my heart

that I used to flip open the lock

when my little sister was stuck in the bathroom.

 

Here is the key to the lock.

 

It is yours now.

_______

I wrote this poem four years ago and forgot about it. I wrote the first verse again, without remembering, in the wake of Sarah Everard. I found it whilst searching my emails in hospital. I read it to a friend on the ward and we both cried. It was one of the most profound experiences I had during my illness.

I am a big sister before I am anything else. This is the key to the lock and it is mine now.