THE DAY AFTER On the day after you almost die, The world will move confoundingly slowly. Time and space will stagger and stall to A snail's pace, and you'll watch in confusion as The people around you carry on lifting and lowering Their legs in place While your feet only recall one speed- to run. And, you do. You run in whatever direction feels like home.
On the day after the day after you almost die, You will realize you are lost. Your ears won't recognize the music in the air; They'll have been fine-tuned to channel blood-curdled Cries, and crashes, and sirens, and you'll Crane your neck in each direction, Listening for a sound that feels like home.
On the week after the day after you almost die, You'll regain feeling in your toes. You'll touch each surface carefully, as if it's Fragile as you are, having just been reborn Into the world. You'll run your fingertips along its edges, Searching delicately for a texture that feels like home.
On the month after the day after you almost die, You will begin to smell the flowers... But, you won't like their scent. Every sweet thing will be mixed with burnt memories Tinged in alcohol, damp mildew, and piss. And, you'll tilt your nose up in repulsion, Searching for a scent that feels like home.
On the year after the day after you almost die, You will begin wondering, "Why"... Not, "why" did you survive, but, "Why" do Ibises fly in Vs across the sky? "Why" do we migrate with the seasons, Trading sandcastles for Jack-o-lanterns? "Why" do we try to keep up with the latest trends, When the only consistent trend is change? "Why" do we ask ourselves these things, while Simultaneously yearning to fit in and play the game? And, your head will spin, Aching for a solution that feels like home.
On the fifth year after the day after you almost die, You will begin to see the softness in the mirror Reflection's eyes. You will begin to Lift and lower your legs in steady stride, Enjoying the rhythm of the music, carelessly Indulging in sweet pleasure, Allowing uncertainty to carry you forward By way of hope, And know that you have been, are, and will always Be home- In your body, your mind, and your heart. And some days, you will fall down hard. But by then, you'll have found the courage Required to pick yourself up and start over. And, as you rise, you will recognize A pair of shaky legs and tired feet RUNNING Towards whatever direction feels like home.
And, under your breath, you will Wish this stranger luck- That one day, too, they will find the strength To find themselves.
THE SCREAM In 1893, a painter named Edvard Munch was Strolling along a road with friends when The evening sky began to glow Blood red- he froze in his tracks, Overcome by anxiety and quaking with grief. The friends walked on and he was left Standing alone, transfixed by the sound Of an endless scream. His painted depiction would be renowned As an icon of the human condition- A symptom of seeing too much, he Purged his pain onto cardboard canvas In attempt to free himself.
Over a century later, I too, am walking Down a road with friends when the clouds Start caving in, and the sky burns A churning red. My limbs grow stiff, and I am transfixed By the scream, as it replays endlessly. I too, have seen too much, purge My pain into poetry in attempt to free Myself. Am left, standing all alone, alienated By manifestations of a human condition...
And the therapist tells me that I have Complex post-traumatic stress disorder, That I am exhibiting a normal response To an abnormal situation. But, nothing feels normal about the Way my heart beat threatens to burst Between my ribs, how my lungs collapse In and my vocal cords fail-
An old man drinking from a paper bag Finds me panicking outside a bar and Calls me, "Baby," wants to know what my Name is, tries to touch me, And I can't say anything.
A woman watches me lose myself Within a crowd, pulls me to a chair and Tells me that I will "sit down," Holds my face within her hands and Kisses my head. I don't want to be kissed, But I don't have the strength to object.
And, I know why Munch thought his art Could "only have been painted By a madman." I understand why people Like us, who have seen too much, Lock themselves up and never come out. We will try, in vain, to excise our pain With paint and pen, only to be mistaken For public consumption- People will chew us up and spit us out Without digesting, Stare at survivor-turned-spectacle Without observing the greater picture, Hear artist-turned-exhibition without Listening to their narrative, When all we ever needed was the freedom... ... to be human.
TWO STEPS FORWARD, ONE STEP BACK The other day, I was walking out of Walmart when I passed the missing children's Board- and, I saw my face. My young brown eyes stared back through The laminated page, still gleaming wide With the fever of hope- The listing urged: I had been missing For a month. Bold letters beside my picture begged, "Every second counts."
I tried to shake the image from my mind, To forget the bitter memory slowly Bubbling up my throat... But then, When I was driving through the intersection, I saw myself sitting on the curb. Now, my skin was leathered thick, and My hair matted into a mangled mess. My hand held up a cardboard sign, On which black sharpie print cried, "Anything helps."
I looked away before they met my gaze, Willed all but the road ahead to fade Into my rear-view mirror. But later, As I was scrolling on my phone, I found My portrait gazing back through Someone else's post. This time, I wore a collared shirt Tucked beneath a pin-striped suit. I must have forgotten to set my watch Because the description read that I had gone too soon. Typed font above the Time stamp pleaded, "You are not alone."
My stomach sunk with shame for all the ways I've tried to cope, for ever thinking I could sacrifice some pieces And still come out a whole. Now, I can't stop seeing myself Looking back through other people's eyes, Dwelling on all the pathways in which Our stories coincide, thinking, I only escaped their fate because... I left the hotel... Because, I didn't get in the car... Because, I stumbled into an open mic, And not into a bar, Or a bed, Or a graveyard- Because, I didn't take the pills... But, I wanted to. And then, I didn't take enough because I couldn't keep them down, Couldn't bear the feeling of my body Sinking slowly underground... Like, I wanted to. And, they wanted to.
I find we share a bloodline born of The same conditional love- Both cast out to catch futures We could never recognize... And, I try to forget. I look away. I feel ashamed.
Why should my fears catch them first, When we've been running the same race? We've been stumbling along at the same Intermittent pace, tripping Two steps forward, one step back... And, our shadows are the exact same height- They're both 38 centimeters wide and Follow us into the night.
But still, the clock keeps ticking, Telling me that every second counts. And, I try to find my footing, to cling To anything that helps. And people call out, telling me that I am not alone. But, I know that They can't hold my hand and walk me To my goal.
So... I step forward. I remember seeing through a child's eyes. Step forward. I dare to meet a stranger's stare And offer up my open arms. Step back. I observe how far we all have come... I reflect on how much strength it took... And, I feel proud.
