poems-by-b

[poems-by-b]

6.28.23

There are not quite words

to form around the sensations that overtake my body.

I am furious,

in anguish,

lonely,

aching,

drowning in what inhabits my soul.

I don't understand it.

I swear it's something serious,

but then it's gone before I can put my thumb on it.

I wish it made sense.

I wish there were steps to follow,

but I am left with my feelings

rising around me in a murky haze.

The only way to decipher it is

to put it in images:

a force pushing me down,

holding me to the ground;

water filling my lungs;

screaming as loud as I can

in the middle of a thousand trees.

The force beats me in the chest,

holds my arms,

yanks on my legs.

It stops for nothing,

does not pay attention to how I beg.

I am in the thick mud,

trying to wade my way through.

Why is this impossible?

I watch the world move from behind a plate of glass,

so thick that it's a wall.

It cannot be broken,

it cannot be moved,

but it follows me everywhere,

hiding me from the world,

letting me see out,

stopping anyone from seeing in.

I dance for an audience

that is still waiting for its performer.

The force conceals me so well that it's almost like

I have never existed at all.

I used to think

my life was a nightmare.

I used to think

I would wake up one day

and it would all be gone.

All of the confusion,

all of the sickness,

all of the missed chances

would all be

opportunities I haven't taken.

This is not what has happened.

It's all too real,

too fast,

to be a dream.

I have too much control,

too much awareness

to get to go back

to do it all over again.

I am still expecting

to wake up

and be eight years old.

I still feel as though I don't understand

what's happened to me,

what I've done,

how I've ended up here.

It's like I can pinpoint the moment that it all changed.

I could find it on a timeline—

the instant my life was no longer my own.

Most of what I remember is this new one,

this new one that is not mine.

I don't belong in it.

Something about it is wrong.

Who would I have been

if I continued to be the one in charge?

All I know is that I was never in charge,

at least not when it mattered,

not when I was expected to make all of this my own.

Why have I not yet joined the land of the living?

Is this why I cannot shake

that which urges me to end this?

Is this why death

criss-crosses through my mind,

leaving its footprints

where they cannot be ignored?

Is this why I want to grab my head,

shake it like an Etch-a-Sketch,

hope the lines will be erased?

Is this why my thoughts

are like a wild animal

on a short leash, always making itself known

whenever it pulls on the chain?

Is this why

I cannot imagine a life

where my brain is clear, and it does not feel too heavy

with the weight of what I cannot ignore?

Is this what's stopping me?

Will it be over when I wake?

[poems-by-b]

6.24.23

The right word for this

may not be a poem,

it may be a plea,

a desperate cry.

The summer is long,

and hard,

and painful.

It is lonely,

clarifying.

The silence sweeps over me

so loud I think my ears may burst.

I do not know how to grow used to

it being like this.

I do not know how to make

solitude my home.

How do I make them love me,

make them care,

when I am not the one they raised?

Two years have passed,

I have learned to raise myself in the ways that I am called.

Is it calling or oppression?

My mind cannot tell the difference—

one day I am full of peace, of hope;

the next, guilt rains on me like the perfect summer storm.

Shove it down, block it out,

who told you that was necessary?

Who told you to feel shame?

There is no place for it,

don't talk about it,

confess,

hold your tongue.

My mind flips and turns,

shoving words into my friends' mouths.

They are not here to deny them.

There is no one to quiet the unbearable thoughts.

They rattle in their cage,

angered at having

no way out.

There is no one to listen,

no one to tell them

they are so very untrue.

The din rises

unceasing.

Why doesn't anyone care?

Of course they care—

it is you who hopes they won't

care too much.

Don't send me away,

don't expose me.

Death lingers longest of all,

outlasting simple tortures.

No one sane keeps their mind this way.

They tidy and prune and expel.

Teach me to do that,

how did you learn?

What is the secret to asking God?

How can I copy your authenticity?

I remember to try

when there's no time left,

when I'm caught without a distraction,

when I can't drown out what's in my head.

The attempts don't stick.

They are scattered,

disjointed.

No cohesion, no consistency.

I busy my body

so my mind is the right kind of loud,

so I won't have to wonder

if I'll have parents today,

if my friends can stand to hear from me,

if I am selfish and cruel.

I think I must be—

all I can hear is myself,

all I can feel is my own anger,

rising,

rising.

Where is everyone?

Why can't they come home?

It's only after they slink and trudge into the house that

my body calls for isolation.

It rebels against them,

wielding frustration and hurt,

as they remind me

over and over

of why my soul is used to being alone until

I am crippled with fear

that I may not outlast this.

I scream and scream,

am met with the ringing of my own voice.

There is no answer.

When will someone hear me?

I hope it won't be too late.

I hope the measures won't be too drastic.

I want out,

get me out.

See me,

hear me,

love me,

heal me.

Won't anyone do anything?

I'm looking in the wrong place.

In an empty box,

there is only meaningless air.

I cry out for help, but it doesn't change.

When will it change?

I fix my eyes on the end of summer,

not on the one who can end my anguish.

I wonder how anyone can stand these months.

How can they take it?

How can they let it rest on their shoulders?

What am I doing that is so wrong?

How do I try?

I haven't learned how.

I need their help.

But it's my relationship,

my faith.

I feel like I'm supposed to know this.

They trust me to lead,

but I cannot take myself to the feet of God

to empty out my brain.

I must rely on pencils,

papers,

friends,

songs.

This part of me is broken.

Intimacy is impossible.

I don't know how to do this, God.

How much clearer can I say it?

My thoughts are clouded in darkness.

I want your light to break through.

This is my submission,

my plea,

my desperate cry.

Lead me out of my head and into your loving arms.

I cannot take another day without your embrace,

but I am too afraid to die.

It's not what I want.

I want to find my place with you.

I cannot do it myself.

Please show me, please show me.

I want to turn the silence

from a mark of my misery

into a chance to hear your voice.

I trust you,

now help me act.

Reveal my steps.

Please show me, please show me,

please.