skin

1:

I cannot be delicate.

Today, I went in for a facial

my face bared to the yellow light

it wasn’t in a good state (it was a wreck)

it was-

I am spreading the infection of my skin

I carry the dirt on the q-tips, on the make-up brushes

I am told to wash the brushes in warm water with detergent, weekly

(I am so tired.)

these are great brushes, I am told. But not good enough for someone with skin as delicate and sensitive and damaged as yours.

There is something inflaming your pores.

I can explain, but I do not.

Explain- there is dirt all inside of me.

Explain- it was always there, always; I remember it from childhood; I think it’s not my fault (please, take it away)

the treatment rips my skin to pieces, scrapes it raw, it’s a ball of fire in my belly, there is a hot liquid raging in my gut.

It hurts to be this dirty-

a mass dark cave sprawled in my rib cage-

but the cleanliness, it hurts as much,

burns through my bloodstream,

turns my chest to ash.

I don’t even mind the dirt that terribly,

But it is 2016, and everyone is clean.

2:

It is 2016,

and everyone believes in seeking help,

to not seek help is to be a coward,

there is a bravery in vulnerability-

but I have never learnt that bravery.

I learnt instead, of the cadence of pain,

and the inhale-exhale of the beast that is Time,

in whose belly we all live, and-

everything is a wave that comes and goes-

and I learnt to ride it,

I learnt to conceal the dirt in little pockets carved inside my bones.

3:

I would like to live, light,

I hold hope a hostage in my heart,

I hold want within my mouth,

I just got so very tired,

there is a weight to the air, holding my shoulders prisoners, casting my feet in chains.

There are moments that never ever left me, no matter how much I begged them to go.

There are losses.

There is loss now, here is a pain to this world too vast for me to hold,

and yet it still sits on my hands, squishing my fingers, it hurts-

there are holes I would give anything to seal shut, but I do not have the tools to do so.

4:

There is an intimacy with the self-

the experience of being turned inside out,

of baring your soul to your bones,

mapping pathways to your mind, barring all the exists.

Pain teaches you things.

The sadness swallows the evenings whole, but you can still pray for morning.

There are morning that are tender, a stroke of cheek and swallow the sob- there is breakfast.

I am relearning the swift rhythm of panic, the slow descent of despair-

It is never healthy to stitch up your own wounds.

The fingers quiver, and yet the needle demands to be consistently and constantly sterilized.

5:

Perhaps it is easier if you truly want to die.

There is a pull, a clear place of puncture.

There is a clarity- I can fight this, or I can surrender.

I believe there is a truth beyond the Reaper, I believe there is a universe outside of Time.

But Time holds within it nature, and within nature lies devastating potential.

I am cast a parody, cast a stone statue in the grey of In Between-

of life and death and all the infinity nestled in between the numbers on the line-

It is imperative to want things

(even to die).

 

6:

Watch people’s hopes fall weakly to the wayside,

and still the pounding in your brain.

Perhaps you will yet scrub your freckled face clean.

Perhaps you will yet stumble onto help and fall, face first into its arms.

Just-

relearn the cadence of your breathing- match it to the cadence of the sea.

Feed breadcrumbs to the birds in the sand and try to trust the sun.

Someday it all ends like a sad song and there comes some sort of silence-

try to clean out your pores, and your mind, and your memories and your doubts.

Hold still under the moonlight.

This too, shall pass.

This too, shall pass.

This too, shall pass.

 

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