she asked me who inspired my poems
and I froze
how could I explain
the way you sneak up on me
when I’m cooking and
I burn dinner
the way you show up
at my workplace unannounced and
the afternoon reports are
full of typos
the way you slip into bed
next to me at midnight and
start talking every time I’m almost asleep
you are the rudest muse
on the planet
but
I’ll be damned
if I know how to make you
leave
Tag: Mental Illness
posts that reference neurodivergence, such as depression, anxiety, and ADHD
I’m going to… [poem]
I’m going to find myself
I’m going to learn half a dozen languages
including how to speak
with only my hands
and silence
I’m going to write
my darkest secrets and greatest lessons
in blood for everyone to read
I’m going to cook the world
one country at a time
until I can taste the entire earth on my tongue
I’m going to dig my toes into cold beach sand
on autumn days that make people
question my sanity
I’m going to let the silence of a simple life
swallow me
whole
until my thoughts stop making these
strange echoes
in my head
and then
I’m going to be happy
the future [poem]
I couldn’t see it before
the future
any future really
each night I slept through the darkness
each day I trudged through the light
as was expected of me
but
I see something now
a solid hopefulness
in the face of the coming journey
freedom
within my reach
for the first time in a decade
thank you, Love [poem]
I’m running
running from the life
I’ve decided not to live anymore
and all of the things that go with it
and I’m tired
so tired of breathing
Love
that I almost can’t wake up in the mornings
and I swear I’m trying
trying to keep living and breathing
and waking up
but it’s so hard
Love
hard to move forward
when the spirit is no longer willing
or rather
the spirit is a battery on low
without a charger in sight
but then there’s you
Love
you who show up
with my favorite pillow and a smile
promising we can talk about it
tomorrow or
next Tuesday or
never
whenever I’m ready
no pressure even if it turns out I’m never ready
and for that I thank you
Love
thank you
on writing poetry [poem]
Every time I put pen to paper
I ache.
The air squeezes itself
from my asthmatic lungs
and leaves me gasping
as the ink dries.
The smell of my burnt wax pain
presses my presence
into each line.
I can taste the salt of loss as it runs down
from eyes to cheeks to lips
unchecked.
The sound of every silly love song
we imitated fades as I
speak substance into syllables.
I bleed words into patterns that become
my fractals of feeling
and it never stops. Never.
I always bleed out,
and then sunrise resuscitates me,
and then the cycle repeats itself again
at sunset.
burnt bridges [poem]
Some bridges make better
quick-burnt kindling
than
river-crossing construct.
And so
I carry a box of matches,
my fingers always ready
to strike fire
and
to escape the wreckage.
There is no
weak-willed, broken
thing
inside of me, not anymore.
Just warrior goddess,
all fang and teeth and wild eyes
watching
in the flickering firelight.
looking forward [poem]
the horizon stretches out before me
immeasurable and immense
i’m excited
the future is a firework with a lit fuse
already burning
my pulse flutters in wild
anticipation
anxious for escape from
this
ice queen [poem]
it’s not normal
this deep down cold
this frosted fragment of emotion I’m left with
after letting go
I should be hurt more and for longer
after how long I loved you
shouldn’t I?
love is supposed to fill you and
it’s loss should empty you
because that’s how things work
and only cold-hearted creatures carry on
unmelted by the burning of old bridges
unmoved by the sharp sting of sleet and hail
formed in the aftermath of their own
/de/con/struc/tion/
and yet here I am
still standing
cool calm and collected
forever the ice queen
Time [poem]
sometimes
when it’s late at night
between the heartbeats
i hear them
seconds
s l i p p i n g a w a y
and
i panic
fingers grasping at air
trying to pull back time and
put it in my pocket and
stop the waste
before it
stops
me
on depression and recovery [poem]
I wonder sometimes
about the way the cold rain makes me smile and
why the smell of old books makes me think of mom and
how I’ll ever find that sweet spot again where
I’m happy and I’m around other people
at the same time
and
I forget how to breathe
inhale and
exhale
and breathe
to stop overthinking and
let the warmth of happiness melt my frozen soul
make me blossom into life again and
then I can go back to wondering
about the sound of water in motion and
the way it calls me home.
the Moon [poem]
the Moon comes and goes and
I ignore Her because I can’t handle it
when She tells me to smile and
Her brilliant beauty in the face
of my aching patchwork heart hurts and
I hold myself apart from others
hoping to cut the ties now and
free myself from a world too painful
full of colors far too vibrant and
eyes too sharp when they see me
they see every broken piece of me and
I can’t sit here exposed like that
with every scar uncovered and
not hate it or them or myself
for letting it get this bad and
not having the power to save me
brave [poem]
You are brave
in the way you climb out of that bed
each morning and dare to face each new day
breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Brave
in the way your dented tin heart keeps
beating in your chest, ignoring the rust and
refusing to stop pumping life through
your unwilling veins. Brave
in the way you insist on taking up space
when the urge to curl up into a knotted ball
of useless paper hits you, hard. You spread out
to make others feel your presence, saying
I’m here. I’m still here. Brave
in the way you don’t hide your scars and
your voice can be heard even when broken and
the wounds aren’t shameful secrets. Instead
you honor your survival with the admittance of
your weaknesses and their brutal beauty. Brave
in the way your soul fears the light and
the dark in equal measure. The light, a bright
unknown happiness. The dark, a seductive
and familiar pain. The fear, a sign you know
what’s necessary versus what’s easy. Brave
in every way. Brave.
How’s that for a story?
I want to write a story. Really, I want to make you feel what I feel. I want to tell my story, from beginning to middle (because I’m nowhere near the end). I’m just not sure how.
I was born to a military family, and I was painfully shy. My friend’s were my brother’s friends, because I couldn’t seem to meet people on my own. This made me a tomboy for the first decade of my life, maybe a bit longer.
I found religion after trying out several churches and feeling spiritual-but-lost. I became pagan, getting mostly confused reactions from people who knew about it. But sometimes I lost friends, because parents aren’t as accepting as children. I made choices sometimes, between being myself and being “normal”.
I chose to stop the shyness, and somehow I managed to make that decision work. I made lots of friends in a new high school, and I blossomed. I loved, and I lost. I had one person tear me to pieces, and there were others around to sew me back together when he was done abusing my gentleness.
I reached adulthood alone and full of hate, moving just weeks before my birthday. I met a boy who would become my husband (and eventually my ex). I moved back to the place I blossomed in, and I found myself lost. My husband decided he didn’t want children; I decided to leave.
I moved stateside again, with another man. I struggled, and I grew. I joined a coven, and I left it. I had a miscarriage, and it broke my heart. I discovered polyamory, as well as my own bisexuality. I experienced bittersweet romance, humiliating rejection, and eventually deep love. I rejoined my coven, determined to follow-through for priesthood. I spent a year trying to conceive with my primary partner, so we could have a family. I had fertility issues. Then my partner left me because he didn’t want children anymore.
I removed that dream from my list, permanently.
I decided to stay (alive) by deciding to leave (this place); I gave my shattered life purpose by making plans to move back home with family in a year.
And here I am. Waiting for that year to come and go, so I can leave this place and start over.
How’s that for a story?
I’ve actually imagined writing out my experiences as a book, a novelization of what I’ve been through in my first quarter century. There’s a lot that happened, especially being a military child; I met people and traveled places I never would’ve seen, had I been born to a normal, settled family instead.
I don’t know if my story is worth telling, though. It’s interesting, true. But is it something you’d want to pick up (or download) and read for hours? I’m not so sure.
There’s formatting, too. When I share anecdotes with my friends, they’re all over the place. Maybe our talk about spirituality made me remember the way my friend Kayleigh wasn’t allowed around me for a year over my paganism, but the conversation over coffee about kids has me talking about my obsession with Vitzi and the Dinosaurs. In normal day-to-day life, that pattern makes sense; in a book, though, linear time is usually important.
Maybe I’ll draw up a timeline of memories that stand out, like stars in a constellation? I could just write them out and worry about the connecting lines later.
I don’t know. I’m rambling, because my thought train is chugging along in fog through my tired mind.
Larissa Lee 