Bruise21 May 2018
The first time I came out of myself it was not how they had described.
A hum under the surface, weighted and distant.
I opened up and expected the drop
Expected to form another.
It was not easy; lying on synthetic carpet, eyes to beige walls.
This was when I was supposed to grow tough.
It was not a reformation.
It was raw.
I still find fibers in my thoughts when lost.
The second time was need above all else.
A transcontinental shed.
Acrid taste of vomit,
sweet barbecue tofu,
smell of wild orchid and tarmac freshly laid.
A body among warm wet concrete air.
I bubbled up this time.
Climbed out in small bursts.
I still feel sick in greenhouses.
Third chance I rest at the edges.
First time: a misleading phrase.
It implies a last
rather than a continuation.
I dip in and out of myself now,
come back for visits to taste clay
and let myself be still.
Bruised earth well heeled,
made in unrest.
I am no longer waiting for something more.
This is all.