i was here
i was here
The first half of the movie A Quiet Place is the closest thing I’ve experienced to an accurate metaphor of what it’s like living with C-PTSD. It’s like that, all the time, except no one is there with you, or understands at all.
Friends if this is also you, you might want to skip it. Personally, I found it relieving, less isolating, to see something portray this experience.
then the ground
was shatter and smooth
over something harder.
the same as my chest
filled up tar molasses;
before that, heavy cream,
I pointed up, slow,
second place fireflies–
my body strobing
memory drum and limp nails
on floorboards, the ceiling
hit between tasks,
time measured off.
a heat register’s cloud
and fall from standing–
speaking glued shut.
synapse panicked syllables
a metronome’s tick
repeating at the tremor
(2004. 4 of 28 drafts I’ve never done anything with, being resolved into notes and outlines.)
the dog paws
I pull blossoms
weeping sap tea
(8/18. 3 of 28 drafts I’ve never done anything with, being resolved into notes and outlines.)
First season, that hasn’t aged well, and frosted lip gloss. The slayer dropping her bag. The wardrobe was never good. Solids are characters in their power. She says James Spader is hot. This ages well.
Our first combat, our first use of the library, I’m nervous about Jenny. Patterns are hormones, textures anxieties. In being taught how to watch, every escape is natal. Devotion is at the earth’s threshold.
Darla is brilliant, her trajectory beyond the half season. Watch this sire, common-law, sex worker. This will come up again, how-to stratify women, their sex a map legend. How she is the entrance and exit.
This is our first hero shot.
(2 of 28 drafts I’ve never done anything with, being resolved into notes and outlines.)
the best birthday I get
is as many loved
ones since the Sun is
lucky, and better than
being at the doctor,
So, success. It feels like
tripping thanks &
correct begin. So much
honing off of, shivering
(1 of 28 drafts I’ve never done anything with, being resolved into notes and outlines.)
With thanks for the out of bounds angels, poets with visionary limbs, the manifesting ultra pisces, the old woman in the purple jacket’s hand on my canary sweater, and her fine hands holding my head, my knees, this hound, that child.
What is a wound but a flower
dying on its descent to the earth,
bag of scent filled with war, forest,
torches, some trouble that befell
now over and done. A wound is a fire
sinking into itself. The tinder serves
only so long, the log holds on
and still it gives up, collapses
into its bed of ashes and sand. I burned
my hand cooking over a low flame,
that flame now alive under my skin,
the smell not unpleasant, the wound
beautiful as a full-blown peony.
Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands
with the unknown, what becomes
of us once we’ve been torn apart
and returned to our future, naked
and small, sewn back together
scar by scar.