Somewhere We Are.

Is Not Applicable

i’m out here on my own

you’re not coming to save me

From a poem by Mary Oliver.

It is sticky sweat oozing down spine,

Leaking into the small of my back

Screaming, “You do not have to be good.”

My own skin whispers back

“But don’t I?” And sears the grime.

I don’t know what to do with my own badness.

Punishment for my “sins” seems necessary

But so does radical acceptance.

All I can do is close my eyes,

Hoping for a better tomorrow where

My brain requires less dopamine

And more compassion.

Slowly I rise from my grave I dig once a night.

I claw my way out of the dirt and into the light.

In hopes that it will wash away

The discomfort around expression

From my identity.

I imagine little people

As they run up and down

My pant legs

My shirt sleeves

My bra straps

Steadily scrubbing the internal

Abuse from the fabric.

They peel off the fine layers

Of self hatred and grime

Only to leave behind a shell

For my body to fill once more.

And, with no doubt,

I will climb from bed tomorrow

To don these scraps and

They will become one with me again.

My self doubt

And insecurities will

Stain my shirt pits

And my pant cuffs.

The devil raging inside me will

More than likely

Dirty my underwear

Leaving me in my own filth

Until I find time again