Fragile Things

newwssd

At some point everything becomes clear. That doesn’t necessarily mean a good clear, but fact is preferred over fiction when you’re locked up in a mental ward. Again. And it’s snowing out–and worse–it’s New Year’s Eve and you’re thirtieth birthday is coming and you’re little girl must be looking for you. It’s all you can do to decipher the shell-shocked woman-child looking back at you in the tin mirror bolted to the wall above your sink. Here you get your own sink because this time, this trip into the bin, they knew it was much more serious than they had originally thought, and your “security” was upgraded. You have a thought you would usually have–that the upgrade only makes you feel more nuts–but at this point, you don’t feel nuts. You are nuts. I say to myself ‘I’m clinically insane’ and for a moment I believe it’s something to smile about. When the leading psychiatrist told me on New Year’s Day morning that I was clinically psychotic and suffering from complex PTSD, I thought about my mind–clearly–for a second, and I imagined a blue and orange brain-scan image showing clouds of sick. Then I slipped back into the room , in and out of dissociating, and the yellow walls were much too close and I could taste rubber in my mouth and then the [Read more...]

Daddy’s Game

for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry…

I imagine you must’ve shut

yourself off somehow–the way

you’d eventually teach me to do–

before you entered my door

like a king’s shadow

I hear the scrape of your jeans,

your hands hot and big like swings.

I’m young so I love you.  I do as you say.  You blow smoke in my face.

Now, here, I slip

because you taught me how to shut off–

how to die inside,

and I have only memories

of my body–

fear, arousal, panic and pain,

death around every corner,

shh girl shh

I hid so well I lost me

in this confusion of a woman

trying to bud from

what’s already been picked.