Eclipses decorate her flesh in a myriad mess
of alluring urges and sorrowful representation
of sadness and denial – suppression she says –
and painfully visceral confrontation.
Disproportionate coping mechanisms
and trickling stains and raindrops
without an umbrella or a bandage
or any real predisposition to stop.
What is life, when life is black,
when light is only darkness,
when happiness is only fleeting,
or non-existent, and harshness
is a safety blanket keeping me warm.
It’s the sad truth of this chronic condition,
these desperate measures in normal times have become
normal measures during desperate times.
I’m a plant taking root: a proposition
that I cannot grow without light,
no more than I can without water,
but there are no tears like flooding night.
If my mind were a pool, then the ocean
is an abyss to explore, an escape,
temporary or permanent or otherwise,
soothing waves and an attempt to abate
these thoughts that constantly batter
the ship of my body, bones of my soul,
heart-rigging, and panic-ridden chest.
Don’t follow me, but bring a torch to crawl
by, out of tunnels of sadness, and into
an empty household, bereft of loving kindness.