Pressing Through

It’s not regular bad news,
or a few unkind words that set it off.
What flips that switch is something
incredibly vindictive, hurtful
ripping the scabs off my trauma
and letting the blood of the old wound
dribble down a limb.

The hurt bubbles deep below layers
of thick tissue and viscus fluids.
It lurks, quietly, stealthy,
awaiting it’s cue to burst through
and sing at the top of its lungs.
Screaming and crying at a volume so loud
only I can hear it in my head
it punches up and through
overtaking me.

Taking control of my breath,
my heart rate,
it pummels its large fists down on me
like anvils raining from the sky
or my mother’s fists through my blankets
when I was fast asleep in my childhood bed.

Blinded by agony, the world becomes a vortex,
and my visibility is blurred to an abstrat abscurity
that no one else can translate.
I isolate, because it’s exhausting translating
the darkening spiral that is enveloping all my senses.
Once fully teleported to the other dimension,
I opt for isolation, because it coddles me.
Grasping at ropes in the sea,
I attempt to steady my course,
but the people who love me don’t understand.
I cannot be fixed, I am too damaged.

The tug of war between wanting to end it all
and wanting to live life to the fullest
is a complicated dance
and I know all the steps.
Life is delicious and juicy, and adventure
can be anyone’s prize.

I don’t end my life, because I assume
I will blow it. I’ll be stuck living
with brain damage, or paralyzation.
Punishmenet of the aftermath would be worse
than the moments before it.

So I cry myself to sleep, and pray to
the nonexistant god,
“Please, make it better.
If you would make them see me,
bring me an advocate, someone
who will stand up for me,
and make it right,
with the toxic demons
who torture me with purpose.”

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