Perilously you buried

Lines in my flesh

The moment I was born,

Caught into my nerves so that you could yank them when you wanted, put me back in my place

And I see nothing anymore

Inside “I love you” but that ploy



Years and years,

lost to this and you still pull on those wires

And seek to twitch me like a puppet

I am flooded with adrenaline, guilt you planted

Over epochs, blooming every day within my lungs

And I still shake when I speak up

Still fear the impact

Of those stones you used to throw



And I am no longer kind, or any sort of naive and I know what to do

If I need to draw blood

To get away I will

If I need to make holes

Inside flesh or if I have cause

To level cities

Burn down homes

On my way out

Well, you have taught me exactly how to rend

And how to kill

And hesitation is not something I still have.




You wake up and you know you are free. 

That nothing will ever drag you back.

And it’s not insight this perspective grants you 

(you’ve gone over and over every part of it, and your story’s morals are nothing outside of itself).

It is space, and light, and warmth. 

You can sit where you like, breathe how you were meant to, be the kind of alone that’s empty of fear. 

You can be inelegant, bare your shoulders without a blanket nearby in case a threat comes.

You don’t have to edit your expressions before 

you let them ring free, now; they’re yours.

That self-consciousness they blamed in you, bred into you. It was no petty tendency. It was an impression left, a marker of those threats you weren’t allowed to give a name to.

Darts cutting into your being and mind, sharp, fast things that you couldn’t speak of.

Because, despite all your efforts, the language of reality was taken from you. Contorted and erased by other words. Words that were somehow so much stronger, heavier, louder.

Your effortless truth became a labor to maintain. 

You were almost made to forget,

And then 


Birth is painful.

Light and Air foreign things to skin that has never seen them.

There is so much to be purged. Poison stings when it leaks from your pores and it does for a long, long time. 

The fear, now coupled with truth, swells and rages while you are asleep. You dream of everything that you could not before.

Not images, not happenings, but impressions. Vivid, sick stylized imaginings. You live hundreds of lives in your sleep, feel everything choke you and kill you, only to wake and fall again.

You sleep for hours, for weeks, in broken and inescapable spaces. You are reminding yourself what it was to be there, how it felt to be murdered again and again and again.

You come up for air, wreathed in damp blankets, and you see everything. 

It hurts.


You breathed through your sickness, and for the first time in twenty-four years, it ended.

(Not buried or thrown over, unseated by plans and practicalities. Not flooded out with chemical lights, not bruised or bloodied or anchored to anything, weight to be measured in pain receptors.)

It ended.


I slept and woke to form lies. Selves I had dreamed of, brought out for testing. Never without deep holes, spaces  I hadn’t decided on, never would. Flimsy enough to pull adjectives from anyone adjacent.

Ten years, twelve years, seventeen asleep. I couldn’t be there, not in that current, so I chose another home. Inside, locked the door. Forgot. 

I emerged a thing unknown and unknowing, too late to learn lessons. To early to survive where I’d gone.

On horizons I imagined lay ideals I’d imagined, too. Implicitly unreachable. I tried, to hurt myself, I didn’t know.

I’m so grateful for the things that leveled all of it. 


Resurrection; Coming Back

‚ÄčIt’s a skill I’m learning. I know how to speak, how to create, how to rush. I can change and I can destroy. But I’ve never built anything. This is my attempt at tangible. Sturdy. I’m making a cradle where my tired hidden self can rest.

You need to switch your definitions, at times like these.

There is no other way. 

Or else you’ll fade out like a bell that rung too far in the past.