You are stitched
from strands of pure gold,
my love,
and all your broken places
show where you’ve been
bruised and bumped before,
that just adds character.
You are twisted silk,
my love,
tangled with an acrobat
of deftly managed
quite queer feelings,
that is how we all maintain.
You are the waves,
my love,
tossed upon the shore
and teased at the surface,
your soft pale blues
that turn to black,
that is because
they don’t know
of your depths.
You are not lost
or unwelcome,
my love.
This forest is filled
with friendly trees
as family.
We are not menacing.
We want the best for you,
my love.
Category Archives: Poetry
Dangerous path
What dangers
am I
in if
I keep
going down
this path?
Because I
think it’s
damn impressive
that 24
random weasels
banded together
with enough
determination to
convincingly play
a human,
so a
slight adjustment
mid script
seems reasonable.
Just cause
You can
medicate me.
Electrocovulse me.
Therapize me.
Dialectilize me.
All you
can hope
to do:
Sustain me.
Restrain me.
Contain me.
I can
promise you
that the
whole earth
is sick
and I’m
just a
simple symptom.
Don’t treat
me like
a cause.
Sheep black by stain
I know that I’m not supposed to talk about being crazy.
I know that I’m not supposed to talk about my family.
Or politics.
Or religion.
Or suicide.
I know for damn sure I’m not supposed to talk about my gender and sexuality.
A bunch of anonymous people know I’m not supposed to talk about my alcoholism.
Or my autism.
Or my PTSD.
These are things people get judged for.
These are the things that cause family members to turn into black sheep.
Some black sheep come by it honestly, just melanin, all natural.
But most are stained that way by the vile oily sludge of judgement.
I know these things make people uncomfortable.
You think I don’t know that?
I’ve always known.
I think a little discomfort is a small price to pay, to relieve some sheep of their Sludgement Day.
Kidnapped
Coming out of depression isn’t like a fog lifting or a flower blooming. That’s entirely too romantic. It’s more like a bright light, but it’s only just spiking through, it’s mostly dark, you’re tied up. Rough. Burlap and rope tied around you, left alone to figure out your confinement and your freedom. Everything is rough and cold but it’s a real feeling. You take inventory, try and figure out where the pain is worst, try to piece it together with a memory stunted by sedative. Bones creak and scars are measured. Checkmarks go with traumas as you remember the things that you agreed to when you weren’t a qualified advocate for yourself. You’ll pay for those for the rest of your life. You were kidnapped by depression. It owns that part of you. It’ll always creak behind your thoughts. But today you’ll get to wonder if this chance at freedom is real.
Frack
A man
once told me
the inside
of my skull
was like
a funhouse
filled with mirrors
so the
slightest
little laser
impulse
of emotion
would
bounce around
and
I r fractured
u refracted
split like concrete
served like pie
little slices
teeny splices
page at a time
all stories are lies
Give it
Late at night,
when you have to
step outside of yourself,
stop your own breathing,
and slow your racing heart,
enough to verify that
the people who
yell at you and
spit on you and
beat you up and
leave you bruised
have taken their own
shallow
shuddering
breaths
in the
lonely darkness,
that they are
still alive
and you are
still here
to keep them safe,
that is the
season of refreshment.
Breath is
the great equalizer
in this
moment of vulnerability.
Take it.
Boredom Buster
If I
were to
only have
two words
to describe
exactly how
I feel,
I guess
they would
probably be
“militant sonder.”
You know
the one,
ever aching
realization that
every person
you see
has their
very own
full life…
but aggressive.
Maybe evangelical.
It will
slap me
wide awake,
only to
yell into
my face
“other people
are LIVING!”
and I
have to
try my
best not
to count
what I
think is
the cumulative
value of
all the
world’s boredom.
Make it
Go ahead.
Make
my decision
whether
or not
to commit suicide
about
you.
Make it
determine
if you’d like
to get close
to me,
since
you are so
spectacularly
against drama.
Make it
into the story
you almost told
about your life.
Make it
into a
reflection of you,
and then
let me break
that mirror
and cut you
with the shards.
Grow or fail
When I
told her
I didn’t
deserve her,
she didn’t
pad my ego.
She only
told me that
she sees
the potential.
And I
can’t imagine
anything
more perfect.
She nuzzled
into me,
grabbing at my hoodie
every time
I tried to escape,
and I felt love
in each harsh tug.
It’s something
like comfort,
reminding me
that I am capable
of making choices,
waiting until I can
make a decent choice
all by my lonesome,
that I can
have goals
and succeed.
And she
kissed me
on the cheek and
let me leave and
closed the blinds
while I let
my tiny car idle.
I think tomorrow
I’ll put in some
job applications and
never ever talk
to my family again,
now that the only one
that truly cared,
the only one
who never made me
hate myself,
is gone.
It’s either
time
to grow
or
time to fail.
Rexicorn 