It is the small cracks in the ceiling that always bring me back home; a light flickers; the sun shines through; now my breath is steady; I hear the water running and I do not quite remember when it started; you might be here- but you might not be- the tightness in my chest tells me at one point you were here though; at one point this was all caused because of you; there are days I watch my body float by me- she flutters through the air so broken yet whole all at the same time- I always have to remind myself that she is me- remind myself that feeling safe and feeling stuck can often be the same thing; there are pieces of you left inside of me forever- I would try to carve them away- but I worry afterwards there will be nothing left; someone once told me- maybe you should stop writing about him so much- if you stop talking about him- maybe it will not matter as much anymore- if you stop writing about him, maybe you will be able to just move on; I think what they were really trying to say is that they are tired of hearing about you- they are tired of reading about you; I did not bother to tell them about the grave inside of me holding all of the details of you; I did not tell them that I will not stop writing about you just because it makes other people uncomfortable; that I will not stop writing about you because this is my chance to take control of the story; I did not tell them how I envy them for never having their own body taken away- I envy them for never having to rebuild a home inside of their own being; how do you grieve the loss of your own body; how do you grieve the loss of the biggest part of you there is- I try to run away from her- but she is always with me; the wreckage lines me from the inside out- I wonder- if other people are able to see the damage; one early morning in December your face shows up in my dreams- except this time I do not try to call for help- I do not fight- I have learned from my mistakes- when I awake in a panic I stare at the three small lines carved into the ceiling above me; I trace them with my eyes until I can breathe again- it is these small cracks in the ceiling that always bring me back home; a light flickers; the sun shines through; now my breath is steady.
lotuskeypoetry depression, lgbtq, poems, Poetry, writer 2 Minutes
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Poetry blog focused on life and the challenges that come with it. Twitter: @lotuskeypoetry View all posts by lotuskeypoetry