Friday, February 7, 2014

Should it show up for you, this is what it looks like

It's quiet
There's a lot of silence and noise
Inside noise and pointing fingers
It's stiff
There's all this desire to move and make the bed
And fold the laundry and align the shoes
And wash face
And shower
And change clothes

It's dark
It's pretending that if I make enough people laugh
I will see my own reflection
It's hiding
It's make up
It's brave face
It's avoiding the question
What's wrong with you
It's overplaying the happy

It's waking up logy from the meds
It's feeling guilty for taking meds
It's remembering how close to the ledge I was without them

It's not having permission to die
It's knowing my ghost will not be forgiven
By human beings who could never understand
It's wanting to live
Just differently

It's the same T-shirt and no bra
Sweats and socks for three days straight
There's that sometimes
That's when I know
Like now

It's wondering the point of keeping therapy appointments
Except that she will listen and make me laugh
And I am hungry for knowing, listening ears
It's being an artist and having to choose
Therapy I need and rent for the week
There's that

It's separating this darkness from self pity
It's knowing that this is someone else
Someone who visits from time to time
To claw away my clarity

It's having bills to pay and no time or desire for hospital
It's wondering how long the cycle will last
It's the anguish of amateur proselytizing parishioners
I am underwhelmed

It's being afraid of being stuck on this side of the cycle
It's being afraid to ask for help
It's not knowing how to explain
It's knowing the fog will lift
It's hoping it won't be too late

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