The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said
The trauma said don’t write this poem
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
My bones said “write the poem”.
The lamplight. Considering the river bed. To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread. To everyday you could not get out of bed. I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do- Is remind ourselves over and over and over Other people feel this too.
The tomorrow that has come and gone And it has not gotten better. But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back. There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into your spine.
So let me tell you. I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings. You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame. You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy.
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside. Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside. Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house. But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing A life can be rich like the soil. Can make food of decay. Can turn wound into highway.