Burn
Author: Danielle B.
See, these days I occupy my minutes
with, the uniquely rich cancer sticks,
to make THAT part of me die –
over and over like a blister in the sun.
Burn.
You see, I am stuck
B E T W E E N
the lines that haunt me,
the way that anger and pride kindle the hurt
the ebb and flow of wasting time,
of rising anxiety – which is automatically lingering these days.
People once told me that, that, it’s good, “it’s good to be seen”.
Behind these walls — this is why I hate to cry –
because, it DOESN’T MAKE YOU STRONGER
because, I’ve been told to let go, to compromise.
I’ve learned how to calm the ego, down
to taste freedom, but ATTACK – the silence surrounds me.
I just might, push the breakdown
In terms, like lines, and boundaries –
How can I describe … the darkness, the isolation, and the self-loathing?
Like a breathless papercut,
Let me lick these wounds into ashes, but …
Wounds into conversations, and inflections –
Healing has this way where moving forwards becomes a place,
where dialogue shapeshifts into the kind of happiness that still chooses to wear a mask.
Hope moves like legs and fingers that try to find others like themselves …
Intertwining like subversion, like hollowed voices beckoning darkness.
And Time, it wraps around old thoughts slowly,
the way a cigarette burns down
down
down
filter.
The pain and trauma
from the past,
from today
from tomorrow —
like smoke signals, cylinders of stories
which construct, and influx, the way my mind clauses –
complicated little niches – :: INHALE ::
Deep, just so I can collapse these mother fucking lungs of feeling.
Because my mind is a crowded space
These questions, like fears, little disarmed monsters –
This is why I choose to light up these contexts, to keep old demons down
with sand and grit, smoke like a chain between the filter and me,
down
down
down
I make room for the healing. But, don’t worry about me.
This is why I choose
to let these cinders burn.
— Sometimes, I miss the girl who used to stand
in the dark corners
of bars
of alleys
who was waiting to die
every night.
Sometimes, I miss the
black and blues
the cuts and scars.
The storefronts
The light poles
The burning smell of rubber
and red and white and blue lights.
I can still feel the cold concrete
floor of Central Bookings beneath my fingertips.
She at least, knew herself.
I, still haven’t found
what I’m looking for.
Author: Danielle B. See, these days I occupy