#31 healing poetry; completely flawed, completely real

I’ve been holding onto so much.
Strange tales told at midnight,
Someone else’s love.
I couldn’t let go of the idea,
that that love should be for me, too.
And if I wasn’t built to be her,
this imaginary lover,
then maybe I could act it out.
See if he arrived, and
silver screens wouldn’t touch
what we’d create.
But my creation spun out of
control. It ate me up from the
inside, and tore my body down.
I kept it up though I was
drowning in my own illusion
drowning in my own confusion.
My chest is tight and raw and
heavy, and I thought
talking about it years after
it happened would help it.
And sometimes the heaviness
breaks, but more often,
it sets stakes in my ribs –
sets up camp,
and amplifies my fears
I am in tears, on days
when it begins to cook,
feeding itself on
what it finds
(in my breastbone)
and the smoke chokes my
heart, and my outlook
becomes smoky, too.
I never wanted to be seen.
I wasn’t the shape or size
to fall in love. I didn’t have
the mind that I thought
was required by the
powers that be, our pressure-
cooker society screaming
down individuality had me
convinced that imprisoning
my sense of what life could be
was right. And, if it was right
to have smoked silver screens
as food for dreams, then it
meant my reality, and my wish
for what it could be –
had to be
My reality got bent, misshapen,
– even if it was strong.
And I don’t know how to
communicate feeling
any other way than this –
with a rhythm to it,
a subtle sense of bliss
in the freedom of being
completely flawed,
and completely real,
100% misfit.
I don’t dream of silver screens
I jump in the sea, and let my
body be seen, and I let myself
see heated eyes, that are
surprised that someone like
me exists.
It doesn’t need a narrative,
or a plan, just a moment by
moment understanding
that we are completely flawed
and it makes us
completely real.

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