O̷n̷ t̷h̷e ̷j̷o̷u̷rn̷ey ̷t̷o ̷w̷h̷o̷l̷en̷e̷ss.̷

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  • in_fragments 2w

    I don't have a lot of friends, not enough who know me anyways... this one is kind of all over the place. The moral is just... to talk again. It's like we've all forgotten how to create true connections. We just... become what we think others want us to be. And in the end, we're left with no identity of our own.
    #pod #poem #mirror #friendship #trauma #recovery #inspiration @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Mirrors, Blood and Silver

    Two long and statuesque silver mirrors
    take the places of two human beings-
    because we don't see people anymore.
    We only see the parts of each other
    our psyches choose to show, the parts of us
    we want others to see, the parts of us
    that reflect everybody else
    like we're looking glass,
    keeping bottomless secrets
    behind our own thickened frames.
    They only see that which is surface level,
    that which is easiest to digest;
    for it gets harder and harder
    to fall in love the farther we venture
    into the limitless abysses
    of our inner selves.

    We will all be mirrors, in the end.
    We are all so tired, so colossally lonely,
    shapeshifting through life showing others
    who they are, searching until
    we're senile, feeble and gray, in hopes
    that somebody will finally see us too.
    We are all forlorn from soul separation,
    and that means we are all
    never really alone. We will never
    achieve true kinship with each other
    with our exorbitant reflectors
    still stood up like pointed cannons.

    We must speak. Bond deeply.
    Break down our own walls.
    Remember that longing; let it move
    past your lips in speech
    and down your face in hot tears,
    let it rush through your entire body
    in vibrations of vulnerability.
    Let a conversation move your heart,
    let the connection of two lost souls
    cause these mirrors to throb
    like terrified hearts.
    Let it build up, feel the excitement,
    the body and soul buzz with recognition.
    Let yourself scream
    until you are seen... until that throbbing,
    powerless mirror you hide inside
    implodes in a burst of burning glitter.

    Go through the anguish
    of picking the broken pieces back up.
    When you stand up dauntless, each naked
    in front of the other, covered in blood,
    and pierced by 10,000 shards of silver;
    no longer caught up
    in such unscrupulous competition to be
    anybody but your authentic selves-
    then you will see
    everything kept suppressed,
    left unknowable in each other,
    and you make the reasoned decision
    to stay or run in panic
    from all the things you've seen.
    The panic that comes
    from knowing someone else-
    and the panic that comes
    from knowing your own self.

    When you have demolished
    everything around you, uprooted
    everything you thought you knew,
    and laid with the pain
    to see it for what it is- the beginning
    of healing a worn out mind-
    when you wipe away everything they
    convinced you that you needed,
    you come one large leap closer
    towards the future you've always wanted,
    and the life you have always deserved.

    It all starts
    with a single heart-to-heart
    and the will to shatter our silver shells.

  • in_fragments 2w

    Been depressed, fighting thoughts of suicide lately, thinking about all the trees I used to climb, how they're changing mostly for the worst. These cycles come and go for me- on Unbearable Depression Mode in this poem. But at least I have to stay alive to write a poem about dying. Even when they're horrific and sad, the words keep me here every single day. I can never stop for too long.

    If any you are experiencing these same scary things, be sure not to keep it bottled in. Talk to someone you trust and love, express it in a journal or a piece of art, find a therapist who can help guide you out of the darkness. You deserve to discover the light that's waiting for you. ��
    #pod #narrative #poem #thoughts #nature #trees #life #death #suicide #suicideawareness #depression #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Death Is A Tree In The Suburbs

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ O̟n̟e̟: R̟e̟f̟l̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    In my backyard,
    in this modern townhouse suburb,
    where the alleyways are grassy
    and venerable earth
    lies suffocated by cement;
    where evergreen pines and maple trees
    loom loftily over our homes;
    the scent of homemade barbeque
    wafts its way around,
    and children scream out in play,
    racing each other
    through their cul-de-sacs,
    circling back by the end of the day.

    Right now, the morning sun
    is arriving tall across our doors,
    bringing both disturbance
    and opportunity in its golden eye.
    My sight is becoming more obscured
    by the old tree outside my window-
    the one my parents planted
    when they moved in, 30 years before
    a future like mine was on their minds.
    It used to be so small,
    like every infant sapling, now it towers
    over every roof and moving horizon,
    clipping every sun ray
    behind the veins of large leaves...

    A grand, developed elm tree
    on the other side of our street;
    standing sure rooted
    next to the house on the end-
    the tree we would voraciously climb
    when we were loud, intrepid children,
    paying no mind
    to the old lady living inside; the one
    who screamed at us for climbing
    every time we tried,
    until the year she died
    and we had no idea. All we had known
    was that our favorite tree was back-
    because the old lady was dead,
    her home abandoned,
    and we were far too young
    to notice the peculiar change.

    Time doesn't wait for you
    to notice it, like the sky which races
    in circles at a speed too fast to feel,
    like the trees that keep growing
    without checking in for permission.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    one too large to keep curated,
    so it is stunted or cut down; and Life
    is a pernicious vine,
    pestering the cracks in the sidewalk
    as it breaks its way through them,
    growing high and away from concrete
    or along the sides of wooden sheds;
    always going up, and up, and up...
    because nature may
    be dying at our hands- even still,
    it always wins out in the end.

    I wonder how high
    these tree branches will take me...
    Maybe up into the clouds,
    if I never, ever stop.
    Scaling their thick limbs, sitting midair
    is the closest we can come
    to flying without steel wings.
    What stands between Life and Death
    is air, and a body to get you up there-
    skin and bone, between tree and vine,
    surrounded by sky; the realm
    where life and death conjoin...

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟w̟o̟: I̟d̟e̟a̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    I don't climb anymore.
    I've been too exhausted for decades.
    Now I grumble and bend and ache
    like the trees here do;
    one side of themselves trimmed
    completely away,
    half-dead with hardly a chance,
    and the stern winds pushing
    their branches close to snapping.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    every one I've fallen from,
    every one that taught me
    how to feel alive-
    we continue to kill them,
    and I continue to die with them.
    It was all so different
    when we were younger.
    Now I helplessly watch it all oscillate,
    I get older, feel more ruinous,
    with less reason to be alive.
    The trees awaken towards the sun,
    they beckon me to climb my favorite one,
    they whisper this, "If you would die
    to see the beauty of this world
    one more time, then what have you
    to lose?"

    What have I to lose?

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟h̟r̟e̟e̟: T̟h̟e̟ S̟p̟l̟i̟t̟-S̟e̟c̟o̟n̟d̟ S̟n̟a̟p̟
    Death is a tree in the suburbs,
    and I, a tired child, am listening-
    clamoring and ascending it,
    falling one last time for it.
    I climb, and I climb,
    going up, and up, and up,
    clutching the timbered boughs so tightly
    they etch imprints into my palms.
    I watch the final stage of the sunrise
    through decaying orange leaves
    and empty bird's nests,
    a hundred feet up or more.
    I watch the sky bleed its colors,
    turning into familiar, beautiful cerulean.
    I hear the birds begin their chirping,
    closer and sharper than from land.
    I wonder if they are speaking to me.
    I wonder if they are confused,
    intrigued, unconcerned.
    I observe the morning dew drops dancing
    on my wild wooden throne,
    forming like gems on my face
    and on the green grass below.
    One more breath, and the vertigo begins.
    I inhale again and feel myself
    smile as I sway, close my eyes
    and relax...
    then one more long exhale
    as the tree branch holding me
    abruptly snaps.

    It allows me to fall so rapidly,
    before my brain can rush to meet it-
    a ragdoll body flying downwards
    out of the sunlight,
    landing with a rigid crash
    deep into the immense shade of fate-
    with no one to watch it go but the birds,
    the trees, hidden insects, the sky,
    and the eye of the rising sun.
    It is a most cathartic drop for all.

  • in_fragments 2w

    Which nature-based element is my favorite do you think?? ����
    #water #nature #pod #poem #thoughts #inspiration @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Aqua Pura
    (I Am)

    I am aqua pura. Flood and flux. My body
    is every rivulet and flume, every wave
    and every overflowing current.
    I spill back into myself all the time,
    because I am everywhere, inside
    of everything, arousing metamorphosis
    everywhere I travel.
    When healthy, spreading clarity
    from shore to glittering shore,
    letting the curious ones seek
    the world always underneath-
    the tactile bottom of a quick creek,
    the swellings of sea life beneath
    a formless ocean,
    water racing over rocks;
    mineral witnesses to a body of liquid
    that mixes and runs forward
    unafraid and unopposed,
    slowly shaping my sides
    against every stoney obstacle,
    ever majestic as I blaze another trail
    through the unknown otherworld
    of the wild. I can pass through places
    no human being will ever reach,
    I traverse every edge of the world
    a thousand times over. I reign
    with watertight sovereignty,
    replenish life immersed in my seniority
    as the oldest element on Earth.

    I carry messages in my movements,
    I bring them to your skin
    and wash your feet with them.
    I cause them to slide away from you
    when you submerge your head;
    I communicate, take from you, and give
    back to myself, for my power is stronger
    than any individual mortal.
    I am a pool of legendary memories-
    the same now as I was
    when I explored in ancient Egypt,
    when they left me polluted and sickly
    in Medieval London,
    and when they created poetry for me
    in the quiet gardens of Japan-
    the same in the beginning as I will be
    at the end. I am the final
    resting place for many, the awakening
    of enlightenment for others.
    I am the crystal skin that houses
    the core, the heart of fire deep below,
    and I remain fleet-footed
    amidst all changes in flow.
    Every stagnant part of me
    will find myself again eventually.
    I am the life force inside you,
    the past and future
    surrounding your present...
    and you still insist magic doesn't exist?

    I am water. I exist-
    the thankless magician
    who transforms everything I touch,
    begetting magic and catalyzing growth
    from the globe up to the cosmos.

  • in_fragments 5w

    The prompt I gave myself was, "Something that makes you feel safe." I quietly realized I couldn't come up with anything.
    #safety #life #love #hurt #abuse #trauma #metoo @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Imagination Infiltration

    This brain doesn't process "safety"
    inside these synapses,
    it doesn't even exist.
    I'm always sitting rigid, waiting
    for the other axe
    to graze my face,
    looking for traps in everything I see,
    monsters in everyone I meet-
    while the horrors
    I never thought to look for
    spread out of those bodies
    who birthed me,
    and their freakish behavior
    I never knew wasn't normal
    raised me up
    within splintered dreams.

    My imagination kept me protected
    when there was no safe reality
    to return to-
    but even that place
    has been infiltrated by demons.
    That safety I always felt,
    manufactured by my young mind,
    left far too many cracks and holes
    for beasts to sneak into.

    What I thought was safety
    in escapism,
    was really exposure
    to more sickness.
    Running to the television,
    to let my emotions go-
    finding comfort in characters
    I thought I could love,
    characters who I imagined
    could save me, and take me
    far away from the darkness
    of haphazard family violence-
    characters I connected to
    and still can't remove
    from my grieving heart;
    they were tainted from the start,
    written by demented men,
    dangerous and barbaric to begin with-
    motives a desperate young girl
    was too blind to recognize.

    Villains have infected
    everything I loved,
    everyone I thought I could trust,
    realize they've never trusted me-
    my childhood
    was riddled with them,
    hiding inside absolutely
    how am I supposed to pull
    their influences out of me
    like rotting organ meat?
    It is never that easy
    when their abuses
    helped shape me,
    their injustices created me-
    devastated me irreversibly.

    Now that they're being
    unceremoniously uncovered,
    we all, as grown men and women,
    must have a reckoning
    with ourselves, put our darlings
    and our biases all aside,
    to see how we can move on
    without what we once loved.
    There is no simple solution,
    no judgement in journeys-
    but a winding trek must be taken
    once we've seen the truth
    behind the veil,
    with new knowledge that
    willful ignorance hurts yourself,
    and most importantly,
    the survivors, who were wrecked-
    body, mind, and spirit-
    in ways you will never
    fully understand...

    Artless, apathetic fools,
    see what you
    can possibly live with now-
    and maybe one day,
    after pushing past your hindrances,
    we will reconcile and mend
    our imaginations once again.

  • in_fragments 5w

    This was inspired by one of @murryben's old profile pics, (the one with the girl who had the flowers and stems covering her chest lol) reimagined in a more grotesque way for Halloween. Sorry I got it out late, concussion and whiplash symptoms had me feeling not so great all month �� But I managed to get this one written up now, and even though spooky season is over, peoples' love of horror lasts all year! ���� I hope you all hold yourselves tight and enjoy!
    #pod #poem #stories #trees #nature #bones #life #death @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Flower Girl, Sliced Down
    The Middle

    Inside the hollow tree,
    she pushes through layers of bark,
    sapped body lying still for the last time
    as disturbed bugs run along her face
    and wriggle through
    her cracked sternum-
    until out of the dead stump
    she emerges.

    She propels herself
    with her chest, hands and arms-
    all skeletal with bloodless,
    powder blue skin peeling off
    from her body like a sheet.
    No nails to grip, she stabs at the dirt-
    moans and groans, screams and grieves
    as the cold, wintry air hits
    every exposed vein,
    various tendons and bones-
    each side of skin, flapping in the wind,
    struck by a long chill like needles,
    pricking her blue breasts
    and the frozen, open skin behind them.
    Many beasts cut her open,
    sliced her naked down the middle;
    they tore her pelvis apart
    and buried her here, left for dead-
    but it is here where she chose
    to grow instead- inside this old tree
    that's seen centuries of activity,
    a dying home she wants to leave.

    She finds hope in the flowers
    that grew up into her rib cage,
    past her violated vulva,
    around her sordid feet, they laid roots
    in the thirsty, welcoming soil.
    The wild bouquet
    climbs up beyond her eyes,
    and she observes her new realm
    through flowers and stems and thorns.
    She pulls herself out
    into the weeded world,
    but still isn't strong enough
    to pull up every root she laid.
    A million sit, tangled up and cloistered
    within the stygian and sunken tree;
    but some, she notices, run deeper
    under the undisturbed
    and forgotten land
    that surrounds her.

    One day she will be able
    to use her body endlessly,
    to bring her color back by the vitality
    of the sun, soaking up water
    into her roots, just like the flowers do,
    garnering energy and life
    from the aura of the forest,
    now that she's freshly found it.
    As her body continues to blossom
    and the flowers grow even higher,
    she picks some out of her chest
    and creates things with them,
    in spite of the horrific agony
    of the pulling.

    She will prosper greatly
    after all the pain, find her way,
    and reverse her aversions
    to her own body-  because without
    much help, she brought herself back
    from the dead, she found
    the sunlight again, after decades
    of gruesome searching.
    She continues to grow
    in intense integrity, in suffocation,
    in the depths of dirt and mud,
    feet away from the melodic creek-
    working hard for the day
    she will finally float down it... free.

  • in_fragments 5w

    Everything is alot right now, I woke up one morning and October was gone. I keep seeing interesting mushrooms on my walks lately though, so that's been cool, wish I could show you.
    #pod #poem #autumn #fall #haikus #mushrooms @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Gray skies contrast this
    orange, red, green, and yellow
    time, rich with color.
    Trees breathe with the wind,
    wanting to say hello, and
    reach out to hug you.
    Fall wind and fresh scent,
    unlike any smell man made,
    hasten- savor them!
    Mushrooms in the dirt,
    see their wild and compelling
    caps- perhaps poison?
    Mushroom caps; some smooth,
    some spotted, some resembling
    cheese, with many holes...
    These mushrooms are red
    and bright, like large ladybugs,
    stout atop fall leaves.
    Dandelions, quick
    to grow and blow away, seeds
    fly 'til they meet soil.

  • in_fragments 8w

    A Fata Morgana is a type of mirage, one that is normally associated with the open ocean but can also be seen at times on land. It takes its name from Arthurian legend, named for the sorceress Morgan le Fay, who was said to use these images with her witchcraft to lure unwitting sailors into her traps. 
    This type of mirage is responsible for all kinds of unusual sightings, from mountains in the middle of the ocean to ships that appear to by flying, and it may even be the source of the legend of the Flying Dutchman.
    Usually, the image is based on a real object, such as a far-off ship, just distorted to appear surreal. People report seeing floating ships, ships that appear to be flying upside down, or even landmasses that aren’t really there. Interestingly, the farther away from a Fata Morgana you are, the taller the mirage appears to be.
    #pod #poem #thoughts #monsters #life #death #humans #mirage @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Fata Morgana Ignored

    The beach lay dormant, quiet and gray,
    on an off-season overcast morning-
    I passed other solemn souls
    in their puffy coats along cooled sand,
    I felt it bond and loosen against my feet,
    I meandered towards the pier, the wind
    nipping at my reddening toes
    nearing the edge of the water,
    when I saw it...

    The Fata Morgana
    made its memorable introduction to me.
    A thirty foot ship, mainsails billowing,
    gliding upside down amongst the fog,
    and a sixty foot wide island behind it,
    whose caps were so humongous
    they covered the skies
    and the heavens all around.
    I saw them, everyone I loved- everyone
    I had ever seen die, staring straight
    back at me with such light
    in their eyes, their arms outstretched
    past the limits of wooden railings
    like soldier's spouses beholding
    the end of the wars they did not survive.
    I watched as mirrors of ghosts
    reached for me over choppy ocean waves,
    inconsolable over the quiet exits
    of their bloodlines, and trying so hard
    to extend themselves towards the sun,
    never fated to have it, only forgetting
    how to feel it. I thought to myself,
    "Is anything worth anything?
    Are these rotting pieces of meat
    and threads of tired synapses we inhabit?
    Are we merely billions
    of men and women and children
    just waiting for our chance
    to dissolve into light tricks?"

    Then, all the people on the shore,
    aghast and stunned at what they
    were seeing, started swimming out,
    entering the water in plainclothes,
    as if entranced on that frigid
    wintry morning. I saw them diving,
    emerging and submerging
    like distorted dolphins, hypnotized
    by the faces of their loved ones,
    how close to the touch they seemed to be.
    They moved in droves out
    to that illusory ship, swimming towards
    jubilation, swimming towards love,
    swimming towards absolutely nothing.
    My own ghosts still beckoned,
    they stared and smiled and sang,
    but I turned around-
    facing all the humans
    running down the sand so happily,
    so excited, so ready to drown in a farce-
    with my head up and forward facing until
    the beach was out of sight completely.

    They were once here, and now they're not,
    and there is no other way
    to visit the dead
    without allowing them
    to take you back on their ship of ghosts.

    The only thing that's not nothing
    is this moment, right now.
    Tomorrow is a mirage, the sunrise is
    a Fata Morgana, but today
    doesn't have to be. Find something
    to hold on to, even if it's pain,
    even if it's dread and traumatic stress
    from being followed by mirages.
    It must come in waves
    to remind you that you're
    beautifully and entirely real,
    and so was everyone else you lost.
    Beautiful, and finite- gone,
    and the glittering mirage on the horizon
    is just that.
    You are not a mirage quite yet,
    still with so much more to do
    if the universe chooses to let you.
    Don't ever stop living
    because you feel Death spying,
    like a flying ship, following,
    waiting to take you in.
    The point of living is not to escape
    from timeworn truths into the traps
    of dangerous illusions-
    the point of it all
    is to live so well, and in the names
    of everyone you've ever loved,
    to find so much happiness
    that you won't be afraid to die
    when your ship finally arrives.
    Life is not to be spent looking for
    and expecting Death at any moment;
    life is to be spent in spite
    of all It's alluring illusions,
    glaring at them every day
    before you sleep
    and staying alive even as
    they rip you into pieces by sunset.

  • in_fragments 8w

    Alive in Ice

    With an ice cave for a body, I thrive
    inside my bones when they're covered in freeze.
    The other's think me cold, but I'm alive,
    truths etched in my veins on an embraced breeze,
    comfortable and safe, no need to share
    when icicles like stars threaten to drive
    themselves into faces and melt into hair,
    I walk alone, piercing and icy stride...

    Do not thaw me to put yourself at ease;
    cold and noble, you want a warm coward,
    I'll hold your hands in negative degrees
    and watch them glaciate, blue all over-
    you can't take it, and I can weaponize
    myself, fingers like ice picks in your eyes
    as I scoop them and twist, they pop and rise
    out of hot sockets- to their sharp demise...

    Easily forgotten, stronger than flame-
    not beautiful, I'm durable, seizing
    blood and ice to obliterate your shame;
    while you die, your sightless red lies ceasing,
    expiring from the heat of your own blame,
    my soul rests, vindicated and freezing...

  • in_fragments 8w

    Yay for lifelong medical battles... cancer... autoimmune diseases... bloodwork and hospital appointments since childhood... at least I'm turning it all into something creative that feels worth something now. I'm not just a guinea pig anymore.
    #pod #poem #blood #work #medical #trauma #thoughts #mentalhealth #mentalillness #selfcare #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Blood Work

    A tourniquet, tied tightly
    around my arm once again
    as I squeeze my fist
    to find the perfect vein-
    tap it, watch it rise
    to the surface of my skin like a wire;
    clean the spot with alcohol,
    look away and prepare
    for the thousandth little pinch
    of the familiar and stoic needle...

    Blood pulls away from me
    into the doctor's long glass tubes-
    their syringe fills up with vibrant,
    vermillion liquid, sloshing up fast.
    I feel it pushing out of me,
    red soda sucked through a straw
    between two thirsty lips;
    after so many decades,
    the flow is recognizably rhythmic
    and draws the sanguine fluid out
    on beat; a little heart force,
    a pulsating sensation
    in the soft side of my right elbow-
    a little bit of draining, all up my arm;
    a piece of life being tugged away
    from me, later be used to create me.

    Switch out another cylinder,
    until I watch them fill up three-
    cover the spot with a cotton pad,
    with the needle still inside,
    then taken quickly out
    just as easily as it came in.
    There is an art to drawing blood,
    and every three months
    I am required to collaborate
    to create my own clean
    hemoglobin masterpieces-
    for under microscopes
    and through test tubes,
    you can measure every chemical
    and mutation inside, monitor
    the uncontrolled cells that make up
    your own personal madness.

    From now on, the needle is my pen,
    turning chronic illness into creativity,
    another long and deep well
    to draw from.

    My dried life force lies
    in between pages and poems,
    betwixt the tiles of childhood bathrooms,
    stained on old long sleeves.
    Emotions linger like dust
    in the silent spaces
    between language and thought.
    I am not gone. I have been in
    and out of test tubes for decades,
    in biohazard bins all across the coast,
    seen only by a privileged few
    who were smart enough to handle me.

    My artwork is the real blood work,
    the pen can suck me through it
    like a tiny medical needle
    and I spill my truths all over the canvas.
    You need blood to create art,
    so for the rest of my life,
    as I give myself continuously to tubes,
    and machines and medications
    and disorders- a lifelong battle,
    I've accepted my fate;
    the art is the only channel
    I have ever had for all that blood.
    A pen is a needle, gliding across
    white paper like skin,
    pushing words in with sharp tips
    that protrude from the page like veins.

    For my sanity, it's all the same to me.

  • in_fragments 11w

    Happy not-even-a-solid-month-until Halloween everybody! ������ Here's a horror story for you anyway ����‍♀️
    #pod #poem #halloween #zombie #horror #trauma #story @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    (Bite) A Zombie Left Behind

    Overcome with a harrowing
    and unearthly childhood affliction-
    as a young girl, she had something taken
    from her heart; a bite that caught the meat
    between sharp and slimy teeth-
    a piece of her eaten
    by a monstrous predator. Now,
    an adult, with a man who loves her,
    she cannot kiss him
    without her lips going cold;
    she cannot express her affection
    without thrusting her life into limbo;
    she cannot make physical love
    without her body turning gray,
    her skin peeling off her hands and face,
    her insides rotting and falling out
    of the hollow hole between her legs.
    A zombie, dropping chunks
    of skin and sex organs
    onto the floor as she runs,
    bloodying the wood with her footprints-
    naked in the autumn soaked forest,
    she loses a piece of a finger,
    a knee, a small intestine winds itself
    into the hands of tree branches.
    She quickly snaps it off of her body
    like a strand of loose thread
    and continues to race, to kill
    the feeling of dread spreading
    between and up her hips,
    the memories causing her body
    to destroy itself like a disease.
    She lays what's left
    of her languid tendons down
    into a pile of damp
    and freshly fallen leaves,
    and wept as she fell into
    a fetal position, the detached limbs
    like ghosts she could still feel
    pressed against her chest and stomach.
    The stars shone bright above her
    as her heart began to bleed,
    and she knew it would be over soon.
    She then stopped crying
    and listened to the world of the night;
    listened as her skin fell to the ground,
    her blood drained away
    like a hose against the grass,
    her heart as it finally plopped
    loudly, heavily, out of her cracked ribcage.
    She released one more
    distraught exhalation
    before her mind and soul expired,
    her eyes closed into sweet death,
    leaving a trail of body parts behind.
    Her lover follows, but never finds her...

    And when he returns, she is home-
    bones reattached and cheeks as red
    as a freshly picked apple,
    as alive as she was the morning before...

    Sobbing together, he kisses
    her warm forehead
    and apologizes again and again
    for the curse her body was under
    before he could ever help her.
    She drifts off to sleep in clean sheets,
    while her heart beats and remembers,
    holding on to the infernal bite
    her mind is not ready to find; only then
    will this miserable transformation,
    this routine of torment and ritual
    of violation end. Until then,
    she moves through making love
    as an archaic zombie girl-
    confused, anguished,
    and haunted by the life
    that was snatched away from her
    too fast.