an ode to my dead god

A PREFACE:
in hospitals, they don’t give you pens. 
                                                   just pencils. 
i hate the impermanence of writing
                                                   in pencil. 
                               as if everything 
could just be erased. forgotten. 
           i am used to scratching things out, 
angrily, 
                        until the paper 
rips. 

AN ODE TO MY DEAD GOD.

buoyed by
a catalogue
of existence, or, a litany
of Reasons To Exist,
my dead God and i
sit in conversation.

why?

i don’t need to say more,
God hears the rest before i speak it.
my dead God says nothing in return.
as if i should be grateful i was
caught red-handed, tears unshed
at my non-funeral.

i hate this pencil. it’s too small and
not nearly sharp enough.
there is no elegance in writing
with a pencil,
the words are thick and drunk,
blurring or slurring together.
i miss the days when they were
filled with lead, not graphite,
but thanks to the Herculean efforts
of one man i cannot hope
to poison myself.

why?

my dead God asked if i could stop
calling them my dead God.
i say i’ll stop when their people
stop using their name
to justify the death of my people.

when God stops being the reason
people can’t have rights.

when God steps in to stop
all this nonsense
happening today.

my dead God relents.

why?

my hand is hurting.
this poem is over.
i bet you wanted a happier ending.
ask my dead God.

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i am borderline.

I am Borderline,
So I have no soul.
I am Borderline,
So I am a demon.

We are likened to,
—at worst—
vampires,
parasites,
cancers

We are likened to,
—at best—
conniving,
manipulating,
ruthless

I am Borderline,
So I am a black hole

— so i must be eradicated
— so i must be ejected
—so i must be escaped from

I am Borderline,
and when i was diagnosed,
it was a curse

They say,
“Do not let anyone a Borderline into your orbit on any basis”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“If you have a relationship with a Borderline, they will ruin your life.”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“Watch out for these people”
(but do they know I agree?)

“AVOID”
They say
“AVOID”
“AVOID”
“AVOID”

it’s funny,
since,
all i am
is a void.

I read a licensed psychiatrist state:

“People say that Borderlines can change but often times, they wreck havoc on their spouses, children and/or parents and the abuse lasts a lifetime.”

I have heard:

“Remember, they will never improve – no matter how optimistic and hopeful you are, that brief period of loving affection will give way to profoundly disturbing, explosive rage. Always.”

I have heard:

“Kill yourself.”

Borderlines are…evil
Borderlines are…dangerous
Borderlines are…bullies
Borderlines are…abusive

I am Borderline, and I am inhuman. That is what they say. I am Borderline, and I cannot be trusted. I am Borderline, and I am damaged goods—not worth anyone’s time.

Why is it,
That people can
—to some extent—
understand how depression changes a person’s behaviour?
understand how anxiety changes a person’s behaviour?

Why is it,
That ‘it is not them, it is their illness’ applies to all else
—But borderline?

I guess what I’m say is—is this me? And is this all you see?

she. [a series]

i.

she
with sunshine
in her hair
and the ocean
in her eyes,
i tasted
her strawberry coated lips
(that the sun had grown
for me)

ii.
she
with blue eyes
i’ve been seeing
for a long time,

fair hair
and a
wry smile,

taller than me
by some,
but that’s not difficult—
at 5’1″
i barely scream
height.

an eternity of distance
between us,
yet still
she
manages to be
the other side of my coin.

iii.
i am
coca-cola lips
—syrupy energy—
long sleeved
black sweaters
and ripped jeans

she is
summer sweat
—somehow sweet—
white sundresses
and sandals

we are
unabashed laughter,
shameless kisses
with our pinkies wrapped
these promises
will never
be broken

…more to come…

 

five moments.

the first when we were children
barely melded by the universe
a first scar
formed on the knee
later will be held against time

i say to you my final goodbye,
our future uncertain,
you kiss my lips
at eight years old
this is the first moment
we connected

i’ll take you as my bride,
i laugh,
because i can feel it
and this terrifies me.

the second, still children
taken by others
a sea rests between us
an ocean,
you correct me

we don’t hold hands, this time,
don’t ride one bike together
but we sit on Our Bench,
five inches of space between us
knees aching to hit
one another

the third,
and we’re together
i write for ages
about two puzzle pieces
who happen to fit
together

but the ocean is still between us,
the fear is still within me,
so i leave.

four.
i take a year to leave.
you disappear for two.

five,
and you return
this time
i’m not afraid

the last ten days of august.

what could empty you?

          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:
           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

on forgetting

days are split,between when i feel
as though i am forged of iron,
indestructible and fierce
and days in which i feel
i am a dandelion sort of person,
designed to break apart
at the slightest gust of wind

on the day i was a flower,
waving to and fro
you found me,
and told me that a dandelion
grows through anything
grows despite everything
and when all is said and done
all it does is spread sunshine

i promised to remember that.

you were the wind,
but instead i was swept up in you
around you and through you
you reeked of poison,
but all i could smell were roses.
you watered me in the river Lethe,
and i could never have enough

when you left, without a final drop,
the echo of you grew,
surrounding me in smoke and dust
i try to shake your ghost
but it is embedded in my shadow
so that now i can no longer bloom

i had asked, with mirth in my tone,
is this the part where you eat my heart?
tear it out with your daggers for teeth,
and flaws for hands?

your gaze was cold
but you smiled
nonetheless
—        i am tired of dreaming of you.

 

for the weary

we begin as small balls of clay,
with gentle hands
and a warm touch,
with our hearts planted
firmly on our sleeves
and a smile wider
than the widest canyon

we begin as soft sponges,
absorbing the world around us
filled to the brim
with the water of emotion
with minds capable
of dreaming up anything

we begin as constellations,
a blank page
ready to be mapped
ready to be made
into music

somewhere along the way
begins the first shattering
the first door slammed
the first back turned, unmoving
the first losses
the first mourning

somewhere along the way
some sooner than others
learn their heroes have turned to dust,
have left them behind,
have left them to live
on their own

somewhere along the way
the world teaches us to build
stone walls around our heart
that emotion is weakness
that it is wrong
to fall apart

somewhere along the way
children become adults
far too soon

starting over

i fell backwards into oblivion,
i let your hands take my soul,
my words were erased
by your touch
i cannot think,
cannot eat,
cannot do much of anything
but you run around
with your heart and body intact
and you know nothing
of my pain

bruised
bleeding
bereaved
i take all my broken parts,
and i begin again