This Is

This Is

Like being in a room full of your own things but nothing is recognizable. There’s a gold shoe in the corner when I always felt better in silver. Silver is cheaper. Less pristine. Stainless steel is even better. It has no weight of importance. No one would be tempted to steal it right off of me.

Like making an offering. A bargain. A wager. An even trade with something less. No one is that helpless. No one barters out-of-work organs. No one serves sustainability on a pewter platter. The gift is tarnished. The present is a rusted chain that scrapes against the pudding suit. It aches with slight, sudden movement.

Like a bother. Every day. A sneeze. A tic. A tickle. An itch just out of reach.
Wellness unattainable. A health scare. A horror. A constant orbit. A crash landing into Saturn. Blood like Mercury. Pain is elemental and enlightening. There are parts of you on fire that you never knew could burn.

Like an unwanted child. A thorn poisoned and embedded. A sip of water that isn’t enough to quench. I clench with every step. I grind my teeth to chalk and drink it down to quell the acid. Like a volcano. Unstoppable. I destroy civilizations with the truth of things. I am a burden with a mouth. I am the recipient of every pitying apology.

Like a worst nightmare. Like waking up hungover with no benefit of having been drunk. Like a rushing train. Constant rain. I am drowning in here. In myself. In my unease. Like fallen leaves. I’m dead but I remind everyone of life and beauty. Like tragedy. This is disease.

(September, 2017)