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You minister to my regret
And clean away the smog; my breath
As it clicks and catches through my lungs
You dig the dirt from blood and bones. 

I weep with relief at the pain you leave
The hissing release of the burning-disease
My aching Heart yells! It screams! It smolders
Let me go on let me wander no longer

Weed up the burrows that root in my flesh
Tear out the system of feelings I’ve kept
Let me be clean again or let me be dead


re-apply the healing
I’ve clawed off time and again

Memories

Somewhere I am weeping, teeth glinting in wailing screams upon the floor
Somewhere my eyes are blinding rage with the justice they restore
Somewhere my jaw is tight and cold and my gaze sweeps frozen by
Somewhere I soften and forgive as someone before me cries

Somewhere I grieve
Somewhere I lose
Somewhere I hesitate and choose

Somewhere I laugh with golden tones that dance in silver song

Somewhere I live, I belong,
Each version of me alive in someone’s mind all along.

Not-me; me

Share me?

Share not-me;

I am not an empty-heart; I am not ice-blocked emotions. I am not a clean-break, not shards of rounded safety glass, cubed, wound-proof. 

I am not time, I am not burdens. I am not certain

Or worthy. I am not organized; I am not check marks in flawless lists or a docile couple in frozen bliss. 

I am not entirely human. I am not a settler, or someone who stays still. I am not full of perfect health and good posture and concerning food I have no iron will. 

I am not tame or sane or well-kept; I am not clean blank paper or unwritten stanzas or shyness toward people I have not met. 

I am not picture-perfect, I am not cliche, I am not a normal being in any human way. I am not a smart tidy rhyme packed away in a neat little scheme. 

I am the words falling away from your minds in the darkest times of your day. I am poetry and panic and disturbance of sleep; I am wild colors and unmade designs run amok to keep their own. I am the child who names herself; I am the wicked wind that flows through and snags your heart from a branch, tearing it off the trees you entrusted it to. 

I am the sickness in bones and the exhaustion in eyes, carved in the smiles of everyone alive. This I am also, to my own detriment. 

I am full of faith-longing; constellations combust within me, believing for saving and waiting for companions and cleansing of sins. My eyes see nothing and my soul sees the wind. 

I am screams inside that claw up from your chest, possessed by searing flame which writhes without rest. I am mental chaos, a shattering smashing shoving build up of quiet and longing. 

I am aching hearts that gaze at one another in silent agony, lips full of words that cannot be spoken. I am tattered clothing,

Ripped jeans and sloshing souls full of sodden sparkles, tired but relentless.

I am soul — I am endless.