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.

Release

Don’t ask me anything you don’t not want to know

The rivers I fold up inside me are bound to break flow

They’ll well up inside and they’ll sweep out my eyes

And my tongue will spiral, earth-bound as it flies.

The memories and hauntings of before that I’d locked

Will gurgle up out on the tide that you’ve wrought

I did not ask to be emptied, you did not ask to care

Yet in the mirror I am crying, and you’re holding me there.

the danger of surviving

When I heard the shout, the crash, the loud

My veins burst with fire and panic.

I leapt to my feet straight over the seat

Of the recliner, without bothering to close it.

I was already cycling through emergency mode,

Preparing my eyes for the blood they would see.

I was ready to reassure, to assist, to prevent

death

Fueled with panic-flames lapping up from my feet

Then he spoke after the cry, said, it’s okay,

I’m fine,

it was the dog that knocked something down.

I crumbled back down, my chest a vacuum

Where breath was remiss to return.

I hate that my life has been trauma so many times

But if it meant saving their lives, or protecting them in crisis

I would shoulder a thousand more panic-fires.

Though someday, I hear, they build up and the fear

Is nothing compared to the smoke.

If you’re not careful, the burning will fill up your person,

And the world will all feel the same,

And despite the extinguishers, despite the protectors,

you’ll never smell anything but flames.

Welcome home, soul

Where have I been, these years, these years

Where have I been these nights?

In what kind of hovel have I been hiding

Afraid of what courage, which light?

I’m tired and empty of what the world has

Over the conquests of fools and men

Every heart in this world, it seems

Is gaunt, irrelevant, and has been

Filled up by the sloppiest, patched up with paltry

Seasoned with promises reeling with poetry,

Stricken with senselessness, sickened with hurry

These hearts do not wait upon or at all.

I am weary of restless, nauseous of breathless

Seeking the foundation you bring.

I left for a time- and forgive me, I lied-

To my own starving heart of my means.

But I’ve reconciled here, and I’ve realized now

My future is elsewhere, it waits in the power

Of the Lion of Glory and Might.

My silence is sacred, but my praise is outrageous

And I will scream to the Heavens

That the shadows must now

contend with the Light.

How much easier it is to follow you

In grinding hurt and pain;

How much brighter and clearer the light doth shine

When night has come again;

I seek no answers except my own, and it is readily

A resounding, ‘yes!’ And ‘hurry, please,

Rescue me with all speed,’

I see the clearest surrenders from the foggiest of seas

Knowing who you are is easy, but not when to leave.

You open the door, I stand and call; invite you in, to stay, to grow.

My God and King, the light unto my path.

I will follow the lights back.

who doesn’t?

the purest energy, the jitters of possibility

who doesn’t?

I hear that song and shake my head, the

glitter catching in my eyes

who doesn’t? 

each sunrise taunting me with its time, I

have already decided so many things, after one glimpse

hope is dangerous, love even deadlier

caution to illness and sorrow and loneliness –

you are all on death row, I’ve realized my hope –

and it feels so sudden, but

i want to fall in love again

 

Who doesn’t?

 

 

It’s nights like these that I wonder why anyone

Would ever

Love me as I am.

I cannot help but see the finite in my use; the inability in my body, the inevitable heavy leaning on another that the years will imbue upon my form.

I will not be able to care for myself alone; I will not be able to pretend to be well; I will not survive if I do not allow, or perhaps beg, others to care for me.

And I do not view others in my place as worthless … I do not think of them as lazy, or leeches, or hopeless.

But it is so difficult, reader, whoever you are, for me to put two and two together. I cannot see the value in others and also myself. Somehow i cannot allow that duality, even though it is essentially not duality at all but merely the simplicity of how intrinsic human worth must be. Either we are all of worth or none of us are – there is some old adage that goes to that effect.

But it is so hard, faceless friend, to feel the burden of a broken body already – at 21 – and to be mentally inclining myself to its downfall. Others are planning which classes to take… I am begging my corpse to continue play-acting at life long enough for me to secure some form of a future. A stable marriage, a job with powerful benefits and healthcare… a lucky windbreak to cushion my inevitable decline.

Yet I profess not only with my mouth but with this very vessel – the shattered clay I am bound to – that I am a disciple of one higher than my burdens. His insignia is emblazoned on my flesh at the front of a prowling lion… so where is that faith?

Reader, why can’t I trust my King?

I am afraid. I am tired. Am I lazy? No, not lazy… but most definitely exhausted and undisciplined.

Discipline is a terribly slippery thing to hold on to when there is no regularity in your form. Imagine your skin changes color without any notice, rhyme, or reason. Try to force yourself to match your clothing to yourself each second of each day when your skin could change shades at any moment. Are you going to change clothes every time a new color bursts forth? Are you going to allow the color to settle before trying to match it,

Only to find it has already fled and been replaced by a new tint, equally violent in its contrast? This is, in a far watered-down and gentle metaphor, the unknowing of my existence. It is the smirk the future gives me when I try to prepare for what may come.

I cannot plan far ahead, Reader. I can hardly plan my afternoons.

But I can trust. And I will seek to continue that most basic principle of my faith. If I trust, he will provide, as he always has. And I can let go and be the shapeless, colorless, undisciplined form that I am cursed to be. A thorn in my flesh will not halt my God. I am what I am but I am more importantly His.

And it is to this truth that I stubbornly cling.