Inside

Wondering when the season ends will not make leaves fall faster.

Wishing spring would swap out fall will not make summer ever after.

I know the truths of waiting, yet I do not feel their weight

If only I could see the end, I’d more easily shelter in place.

Yet as it is my truths are muddled, the skies aren’t clear and dust clouds reign

If I want to live then my life must die

Waiting, watching

And sheltering in place.

I did not know just how much snow

Could fall in such a winter.

And as it grows, and my windows close

I begin to forget the summer.

Someday I’ll breathe the light again but until then

I wait instead.

Disgusting

There is something sick inside me, it is

Easier to be ill

I know nothing so well as disease, I am

Better at being sick than any facet of humanity

I would otherwise display.

Fear blossoms, whispers inability

I know better the honeyed pity, the bleeding sympathy that flows

I can manage the gratitude they exude

That their lot has not fallen as mine;

I am better at belonging in the hospital bed

Than any talent I can find

Something in me longs for that familiarity

Take me back where I understand and am understood

The beeps and monitors I speak, the veins and lines that intersect at a nurse’s hand

It is far more ordered than this chaotic land

I have more to offer in the crisp-white room than in this panicked time;

I can offer mystery; blood and antibodies and metabolic panels that defy reason

I hold curiosity; extra collagen and misery

I know not where else to run when

I

Bleed

But

Someone wants my uncertain mess; this diseased, distressed, and homeless wreck

A God so clean, with want of me? How delightfully wrong it seems

But… it is there I surely belong.

Abandoning

Why don’t I cast a bottle into the sea

Beckoning someone to write back to me?

Surely a sailor or wanderer of sand

Somewhere will hear me and read from my pen?

Why don’t I wrap up my mind in a scrawl

Curl up its oddities, its flights and its falls,

And cast myself into the sea?

Will anyone dare to find me?

Or will I sink away into the deep?

stuck

There is a tension in waiting

for a blow that never comes;

Your body, crumbled to posturing

perched upon your splintered throne.

 

There are eyes tired of searching,

yet unable to close for rest;

There are lungs squeezed shallow from filtering

the quietest possible breaths.

 

There is loss multiplied by loss

in the fight to never be knocked down again;

There are waves that will never drown you, yet

you cannot ever risk submerging for a swim.

 

There is knowledge of inky black

which no one can pretend not to see;

There are stains of morbid red

where your heart rips open (every other beat.)

 

There is an exquisite agony

in never feeling home;

It does damage, it curries questions

that should never be asked.

 

You cannot learn to thrive and love

when your alertness

your caution

your awareness

when your panic will never relax

achesleep

Someone said,

“You can’t miss anyone while you’re sleeping.”

I closed my eyes. That isn’t true.

I’ve spent hundreds of years searching for you.

Missing you in valleys, in dungeons, in endless time

Every single night in the dark mazes of my mind.

I can lay me down to sleep, aye, and even dream

But missing you is a longing that pervades even sleep.

Waves

I did not think I could be knocked down again

But time and again now I have found

Myself near edge of being drowned

Taught this well, re-instructed and blessed

Learn-ed by life’s patient fists.

I keep my face above the waves

Just barely, by effort of prayer and strain

Like sand through an hourglass.

Someday my buoyancy won’t last.

Trastorno

Fear is

The unwillingness to cut my fingernails

Lest I be without a weapon.

Expecting everyone to hurt me

With every passing second.

Trauma is

Unbridled rage when someone is flippant about the two ton metal monster they command with the twist of a wheel.

Catastrophic thought is

The absolute assurance that someone is dead

When they don’t pick up the phone.

PTSD is not

Being careless with emotions; immature and loud

Over-sensitivity because of insecurity

Or disliking certain sounds

Post traumatic stress is

Sweating through your decaying dreams

Waking to silent, dehydrated screams

Covered in despair, certain the lives in your sleep would still be out there

If not for your own failure.

It’s

The inability to face that room

The panic that comes over you

When a movement doesn’t belong; someone’s behavior is jarring or

Wrong.

It’s bracing for blows that may never come

After so many years of not being ready and getting knocked down

You can’t bear the possibility

Of another blindside,

so you

Expect pain

And torment, crime

And death

And blood and fear and trauma

All. The. Time.