my body is not an act of contrition
it’s not a performance I put on to pay penance to those who must look at me;
this is not a transaction,
my effort at some standard of beauty
for your regard
I will not apologize for your attention,
or arrange myself to make your looking at me a pleasant experience
I will not suffocate,
agree to the expense,
or bow to the impracticality of it all;
I will not mold myself to earn your recognition
my body is not an act of contrition
life was Dorothy Hamill haircuts and bright white roller skates with colorful wheels,
dimples and batted eyelashes and 25c ginger ale in returnable bottles
before it became grocery store boxes of hair color and the embarrassment of paper food stamps,
30 pounds of extra weight and fingernails bit to the quick and too many crushed cans of Milwaukee’s Best Lite littering the shitty apartment
life was bruises no one could see and tear-soaked pillow cases,
reduced priced school lunches and ketchup sandwiches at home and too many unasked questions by too many people who were supposed to be doing the asking
before it became her own hands swinging and her mouth repeating and too many more tears on another generation of pillow cases,
expired milk and bare cupboards and needle tracks up arms that have hugged all the wrong people
I have been wake-walking in a worn-out tired that’s perpetually nauseous,
ravenous for something, but not hungry, exactly,
raw in a way that takes me by surprise and frustrates me;
the most trivial things are the last straw,
and there seem to be so many lasts
I have learned it’s not possible to wake up on the wrong side of the bed when you never really slept,
when there was no restful sleep,
just the tiny spaces between the cyclical blips of a never-ending SOS
and no matter what face I put on,
I am not greener on the other side,
I cannot find the sweet, restorative spot,
and too many days it feels like life is a zero sum game –
you only win until you lose again
I have been here before,
in a place that was a slow slide into conscious unconsciousness,
and the difference this time is that I know where I am,
I know who I am as I rest my head on the warm side of the pillow,
because I don’t have the energy to flip it,
and the flipping is never fast enough, anyway,
is it?
time isn’t on my side, which is funny,
because time is the only thing that matters,
isn’t it?
and I just keep asking myself:
what would be the point of living,
if we didn’t allow time to change us?
if we didn’t realize that time is the purest form of love on this earth?
There’s no music in these headphones,
No rhythmic beat a’playin’,
There’s no cool lyrics to sing to,
For dancin’ or hip swayin’
There’s no music in these headphones,
No recharging chord,
There’s no lullaby for comfort,
When times get really hard
There’s no music in these headphones,
There’s no power supply,
There’s nothing but the static,
And the tears that have run dry
-image via Pixabay; written and re-posted as part of Mental Health Awareness Month to help bring awareness to the realities of depression
in so many crevices,
in drawers and cabinets and waste paper baskets,
buried,
beneath, beneath,
lies wrappered shrapnel,
hidden,
yet, gnawing, gnawing,
from the inside out,
a silvery, crinkled breadcrumb graveyard of words,
unspoken,
a secret swallow for every sinful syllable,
a cloaked choke on every vile vowel,
gnarled nouns stuck somewhere between my stomach and my mouth,
and there’s just no relief
sneaking behind closed doors and around corners,
furiously famished,
I binge and cringe on chocolate barbs,
on sacks of salty sinew,
slicing and chewing at the operatic clash,
at the rising, rising of the pitiful loathe,
a boiling bile in the pit of my being
a flood,
unuttered,
yet, refusing to be unheard
-image via Pinterest, by artist Lee Price
I dare to close my eyes,
to be still and content,
despite the blackness,
threatening ascent,
almost instantaneously,
feeling rapid descent,
but it’s not black,
where was I sent?
it’s all so bold,
and lines are bent,
in technicolor,
with vivid accent,
non-linear and sharp,
the not-shapes torment,
rippling hues spinning,
a vortex of dissent,
hands and fingers paw at me,
a sea of malcontent,
this sensory kaleidoscope,
I’m overwhelmed, spent,
rapid breath in all blues,
but it’s stuck like cement,
I can’t feel my skin,
is this going to relent?
am I still sleeping?
where have I went?
if this is dreaming,
I don’t give my consent,
bring back the blackness,
this is not what I meant
-image via Pinterest, The end of yesterday by Delira
some would say we’re too sensitive
call us sissies or say we’re too frail
some would call us drama queens
and erect walls for us to scale
some would say we’re broken
angles and edges that just don’t fit
but I see cracks made by growth
where love was free to sift
I see expression, fearlessly
when some wish to tuck it away
truth tellers in a world of omission
seekers, willing to bend and fray
because, we aren’t afraid of darkness
for our hearts shine too bright
and we have the most amazing job –
we are the bringers of the light
-image via free lighthouse wallpapers; shared also in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver prompt
Heart Breathings 