The Good News Is,

Past-me, the good news is

The pain all fades eventually.

Past-me,

Don’t you see?

Those memories someday will no longer bleed.

Past-me. Listen here.

You’re hurting over something that will not matter in a year

Past-me, be of cheer!

The stories told of heartbreak old will help you learn to steer.

Dear past-me, so young and cold,

Each step from old-pain and breaks will bring you closer to where you’re meant to be… don’t you see…?

Past-me.

In but months your only feeling is relief.

So just be, past-me, and weep and bleed and fret

Someday soon your dancing-eyes

will no longer be wet

And last-need, past-me, is a harping on such pain.

Thankfully you’ll heal up fast and

Not pull the wounds open again!

So sleep, past-me, and dream of today and currently

When courage stops to stay awhile with his keeper, present-me.

Isn’t that right?

What words I carve, what sounds I serve

The whisperings don’t stop.

I hear them call to ruin it all

To let the pressures — Pop!

If I close my eyes, they’ll stretch and rise

And burn up behind my sight

If I breathe like I need, the currents will crease

And sprout my lungs like seeds.

They’re sucking in droughts and I’m drowning throughout

While my thoughts weave impassably tighter.

Why break up the brambles or risk the great tangle?

If I pretend I feel ought like I should never have been taught

Maybe relief will surface instead of the sorrow.

This writing is long because I cannot go home

The risks of my presence are too great.

As long as I write, the darknesses inside

Cannot hurt me or others I love.

As long as I write, the burning tension on my ribs

Will break up instead of burn in

As long as I write

The panic of my mind that I’ve been suppressing this whole time

Cannot! Find! A! Home! At! My! Side!

As long as I write, I cannot die?

As long as I write

As long as I write

As long a

As lo

AS LONG AS I WRITE—

wuelloblack

Who has written since she fell? The dark inside, inkiest well

Dip deep your quill, scratch through your words

Spill inkblood into all your hurts.

Who has fallen since she rose? The candlelight by deepest prose

Dig out your heartache, render it used

Paint her poetry, and

Prettily refuse.

I Forgive You – an open letter (you know who you are)

I hope you see this, and not just

Every other word from my mouth,

the lilting that could be condemnation,

the rhymes that could be calling you out;

I hope you hear that I know what Love has planned

For you; beyond your storms.

I still believe who you’re becoming is better;

Is loved;

And who you were doesn’t have to exist anymore.

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.

Cuarentena

Where’d the sunlight go, and to where all the shade?

Both have left walking – quite rudely, I’d say.

What shall we do without darkness or light?

Wherefore the sun? Wherefore now the night?

We cannot go on in this timeless abyss, this

Spiral of seconds that do not exist.

Confined in the circle of what was and not yet is

We wait for awake – and asleep – to be fixed.

If I don’t escape soon, I fear I’ll soon give in

But how can I give in with nothing to resist?

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.

Nonsenset run

Wherevet you go, the starting-men are

The wharmint-bends follow, the night thickly stars

A cluster of deep/traps, a medallion of art

The trinksy devoid of the callousy-part.

To Whomevet you speak, from Whenevet you run

The slow-laughing lords with their jesting and fun

Will find you and bind you for memories to make

As we all settle down at the table to wait.

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.