Trigger Warning: alcoholism, addiction, mention of drug use
How many of my own garments shuffle
with the scrubs and hospital gowns
They feel disposable
But so do mine
As I prepare
As I prepare to leave the hospital
As I prepare to go to rehab
I listen to Amy Winehouse on my headphones.
She is dead.
That is enough
I say yes to everything but is it enough
I think of my heart not as a muscle, or a stone, or a vase to be filled, but like a flower.
A delicate flower.
When it’s content, it blooms.
I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Reba Overkill. In its first post with us, it speaks through poetry to recall its struggle with being heard by the people who matter. Thanks for sharing with us, Reba!
Trigger Warning: allusions to sexual abuse, self-injury & suicide attempts.
it all came together a few nights ago, weak and bent
in your lap, feeling lost, feeling like it was years ago when
i was never anything like the me that you know. i was
someone who was trying to speak, nobody listened and i didn’t
understand because i can hear so fucking well, i listened and
i heard sirens, and songs that i would sing with people who i did
not end up loving very kindly. i heard calm assertions by
people in authority that left cracks in parts of me. i heard
the breath i took in when i woke up and was not dead, even
for all my trying. i heard people leaving hints for their departure,
inclining heads towards one-way tickets to not existing.
the problem is there is no ethical answer.
one hello––from a stranger
: a cannon shot.
how are you––from a friend
: a packed audience
in a 360 degree stadium,
looking at me with a magnifying glass,
an echo chamber
hung on my reply.
nothing fits.
what makes sense is not what i know.
i can’t function.
i am a crazy person.
there is a bird in my throat trying to sing.
why can’t it sing?
I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Billie Rain. Ze is a wonderful poet who writes about hir experiences with Dissociative Identity Disorder and PTSD. Thanks for sharing with us, Billie!
How can I write
a fucking poem
with everybody fighting
all the time?
pansexual
crazy
queer
transgender
insecure
daughter
kinky
mentally ill
