Working on something a little darker than my usual scribbles lately, as I prepare for a possible upcoming competition.
Failing that, I’m thinking of gathering the whole collection together into a chapbook called Life Of Shadows — which, if I’m honest, feels like the perfect title for where my head’s been wandering creatively of late.
There’s something strangely cathartic about opening the door and letting the dark passenger stretch its legs for a while. Not in a destructive sense, more in the way storms clear the air. Poetry has always been part confession booth, part exorcism for me anyway.
Here’s one of the pieces from the series. It’s called The Garden Stirs, and I’m genuinely proud to say it was shortlisted for the Dark Poets Prize IV.
Issue Five of AEOS Magazine is out now. Its bold collection of art, literature, and original talents. There’s even a poem of mine nestled in the pages.
Today the stores are full of flowers wrapped in plastic smiles.
Card aisles rehearsing a script about what a mother is supposed to be— soft hands, warm hugs, unconditional written in pink cursive like it’s a guarantee.
But I know kids who learned the word mum by pointing at someone who didn’t give birth to them.
And nobody prints cards for that.
Nobody prints a card that says: Thank you for staying when leaving would’ve been easier.
Or: Thank you for showing up to the parent-teacher conference while the teacher keeps calling you aunt… like love only counts if the DNA matches.
Some people think motherhood is biology.
Like it’s hidden in blood cells, stitched into last names, certified by hospital bracelets.
But I’ve seen mothers who never stepped foot in a delivery room.
I’ve seen mothers learning to braid hair at midnight from a YouTube tutorial because the kid needed it done in the morning.
I’ve seen mothers working double shifts then coming home to help with the homework they never got the chance to finish themselves.
I’ve seen mothers who were really grandmothers, neighbours, big sisters, step-parents, foster parents, teachers with extra snacks in their desk for the kid who swore they “weren’t hungry.”
I’ve seen mothers in rain-soaked bleachers screaming that’s my kid with a voice loud enough to argue with the whole world.
Because motherhood is not nine months.
It’s the years after.
It’s packed lunches. Late-night talks. Text me when you get there. I’m proud of you.
Tiny sentences that stitch courage into a child’s spine.
So today, if you celebrate Mother’s Day
celebrate the woman who stayed.
The one who made space at the table. The one who learned your fears like a second language.
The one who chose you again and again and again.
Because blood might start a family.
But love—
love is the hands that stayed long after the world said they didn’t have to.
That’s a mother. Even if the hospital never wrote her name down.
Years ago, I learned some truly shocking statistics about suicide—800,000 lives lost every year. That’s one life every 40 seconds. It’s a deeply uncomfortable topic, but it’s one we can’t keep ignoring.
The truth is, suicide is the leading cause of death for men between 20 and 49. And while this affects all men, over 60% of newly-diagnosed autistic adults report having suicidal thoughts.
These numbers are devastating. We’re finally starting to talk more about mental health, but there’s so much more to be done to prevent people from reaching that point. To remind them they’re not alone.
I nearly became a fucking statistic so many times.
“This Poem Ends Every 40 Seconds”
Every forty seconds someone ends their own life.
Not a metaphor. Not a number on a website. A person. A real human soul punched out like a clock card, because the noise in their head was louder than any help ever offered.
Forty seconds. By the time you finish reading this stanza, someone else is gone.
But we don’t talk about it. Not really. We whisper it behind closed doors, use soft words like “passed away,” or “lost them,” as if they just wandered off into the woods and forgot to come home.
Mental illness is still a dirty word. Still something we hide in drawers with old medication bottles and family secrets.
We tell people to “reach out” but give them nothing to grab onto.
We applaud strength but punish vulnerability. We ask, “How are you?” but only want to hear “I’m Fine.”
We romanticize broken artists but ignore the broken people in our inboxes. At our dinner tables. In the mirror.
Some of us scream with silence. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly functional. Perfectly invisible.
The truth is we lose more people to quiet despair than to war or violence. And still, we treat therapy like a confession booth, instead of healthcare. Still, we treat emotion like weakness, and stoicism like bravery.
It’s not brave to bottle the storm. It’s brave to name it. To say, “I’m not okay.” To cry in daylight. To take meds, see a shrink, open the wound and not apologise for bleeding.
If you think this is heavy, good. It’s fucking supposed to be.
Because someone you love is already counting the seconds. And they don’t need a pep talk. They need a world that listens before the silence becomes permanent.
I thought I was whole because I managed to stay alive in my own skin, because I learned how to stand without shaking, but I was wrong.
Endurance isn’t the same thing as arrival. I didn’t know that then. I thought standing alone was strength, like isolation was proof I could never break. Like I didn’t need anyone to catch me when the world tilted sideways.
Then you showed up.
You didn’t fix me. You didn’t bring a cape or a toolkit, didn’t slap a label on me that said husband upgrade or emergency masculinity.
You just stood next to me and suddenly, the darkness inside me started speaking in colors.
You are not my missing piece. You are the language my scattered, broken pieces finally agreed to speak.
Before you, I loved like a man afraid to love, hands half-open, heart still under lock and key, as if the good things were borrowed and scheduled to vanish before I could say thank you.
You taught me that love doesn’t wait at the door it kicks it open, moves in, makes itself at home and brews coffee before I even wake up.
You didn’t need to interpret my silences you understood them. You saw the parts of me that weren’t ready for words and never once made me feel less for still being under construction.
You didn’t complete me by stacking yourself on top of who I was you completed me by pointing out the spaces I was hiding because I was afraid I’d disappear.
With you, I’m louder without ever shouting. Softer without apologizing. Braver in ways that don’t need to rattle the earth to feel real.
You look at my mess and call it a room we can live in.
You turn quiet mornings into proof that joy doesn’t need a crowd— just two people, choosing each other, over and over again, like breathing.
Loving you feels like letting go of breath I’ve held for years- like finally exhaling and realizing I never had to hold it.
I’m still me. You’re still you.
But together, we make a life that finally knows how to tell the truth.
And if someone asks how my wife completes me, I’ll say this:
She didn’t fix me. She didn’t make me whole. She showed me I was already whole, and taught me how to love myself like I always was
It’s the middle of the night, And I’m here, half-frozen, Lying in the icy abyss of my side of the bed, While she The Duvet Bandit Sleeps like a queen on her fluffy throne, Curled up in the warmth of her stolen kingdom, Oblivious to the tundra she’s left behind.
Each night it’s the same. I think tonight, Maybe tonight, I’ll win the war. I’ll slip under the duvet, Feel the warmth, Pretend this battle’s mine.
But she She moves like a ninja in the dark, A half-sleeping contortionist, Tugging the duvet with the grace of a thief, Taking the heat, Leaving me with nothing but the cold, A crisp reminder of her skill.
I could protest. Start a midnight negotiation “Hey, that’s my side!” But look at her Blissfully unaware, Curled up, In her fortress of fluffy dreams. She doesn’t even know she’s won. She’s in heaven, And me? I’m freezing, But I’m smiling.
This This is love. This is the dance we do, Night after night. Her stealing the duvet, Me, the coldness. But somehow Somehow Her happiness wraps around me like a blanket too. A little warmth in the chaos.
So I let her have it, Let her keep it The duvet, The warmth, The night. Because in the morning, She’ll stretch, Give me that sleepy grin, Like she’s just done me a favour. “Thanks for lending me your half.”
She may steal the duvet, But she never leaves me cold. Because at the end of the night, It’s not the duvet that keeps me warm, It’s her love, Her laugh, Her way of finding her way back to me Even if it’s just to swipe a little more.
(c)BobChristian
(Legal: Mrs Bob may or may not be guilty of duvet and or blanket theft)
We let the morning ring out like an alarm clock that learned our names and decided not to embarrass us. Sunlight leans through the blinds pitching productivity like a pyramid scheme. We mute it. Your shoulder is a country I keep renewing my passport for. We inventory the silence, find it fully stocked.
I practice stillness like it’s a vow I plan to keep. Outside, errands pace themselves. Inside, we go missing on purpose. Someone once told me love isn’t fireworks it’s the couch or a bed, the long exhale, choosing the ordinary and calling it holy.
