I want to hear rain again
like it felt before the PTSD.
none yet clean enough to drink.
it’s like a metaphor for my life:
being stuck; drowning in myself.
I’m being haunted by a ghost.
He’s never really there,
but sometimes he makes a sound,
and makes me think I’m not alone.
He’s like cigarettes to me;
they both destroy me slowly,
but I can’t stop reaching for them when I’m low.
He doesn’t know how to love;
he can only run away.
But I, when I feel something,
I run towards it with all my heart.
I’m not afraid to love,
and I’m not scared of ghosts.
always seeking mine to hold for comfort;
at night, wielding a knife to cook for me;
when you write, holding your pen the wrong way,
and holding on way too tightly;
your hands, my love,
are precious to me.
they are calloused from work;
there’s dust under your fingernails.
even if divine angels came down from heaven,
and reached their holy hands out to me,
I would reach for yours instead,
because your hands, my love,
they captivate me, then set me free.
My brain is trying to kill my body slowly:
“You ate yesterday; you don’t need to eat today.”
What kind of self-destructive reasoning is that?
skip meals all day; eat cake at night.
You need those calories, after all,
but they make you feel more tired than before.
Get a hold of yourself; you’re an adult!
Besides, what’s so bad about being fat?
“You won’t fit your favorite clothes.”
So what? You’ll buy some new ones.
“You want to be the smallest person in the room,
and I hate it.
How much would you like to know about me?
You can care only so much.
You don’t want to know every struggle
that every individual goes through.
How much do you really want to know
about my background, sexuality, passions, and loves?
Maybe we can connect
if you find a thread that ties us together.
Do you really want to know
what makes me sad, angry, indignant?
Will you grow hateful and malicious,
if we don’t see eye to eye?
Before I lay myself out in the open,
before I strip my heart bare,
I just wanted to ask:
do you really want to know me?
I forgot what I was going to say;
it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Here comes a torrent of new thought;
do I have it in me to make sense of it all?
My hands long to be busy;
my toes will not stop wriggling in anxiety.
Peace is a concept foreign to me;
although dad says it can be found in piety.
I no longer have faith, so I won’t pray
to God to cure my ADHD.
I just take it day by day,
and hope that I can just be.
I never want to be a mother.
I love to teach,
and I yearn to help a child
see life through the lens of beauty.
I never want to be a mother.
How could I be a good parent,
when I never learned the ways,
from my mother who once said:
“You were the biggest mistake
I have ever made.”
I don’t want to be a mother,
but I do
want to cook for a child and say:
“Look at all the different ways
that you can make eggs;
which one do you like the best,