Small
There are so many ways
of dying to
believe yourself alive.
Bottles meet lips
fists meet wall
blades meet skin
food meets mouth - or
doesn't -
fingers move to back of
throat.
And when I wake, my
body begs me
for a second chance.
Always too small and
too
large for this world, I
have only ever wanted to
bring myself to life.
To breathe inside this skin
without
the ghosts who try to
live here:
there is a constricting
spaciousness in silence that
shrinks me smaller
until I am
nothing - this physical
body is too large,
takes up
too much
space --
this place of small is
familiar and
gives the ghosts the
space they need to
inhabit this too-much,
this
not-enough, this --
I wonder if
impossibility
is the only way I know
to love myself.
Wonder if the only way
I can be small
enough is by not
speaking,
ridding myself
of heart or
brain or
body, I let the
ghosts fill my empty
spaces.
There are so many ways
of dying to
keep yourself alive.
Shaking voice forms truths too
holy for silence, too
holy for speaking.
Coded tongues drop
words from
bitten lips:
oh, Impossible One --
there is courage here
even when
everything
everything
shatters.
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