Bodies breakdown

Broken veins with broken bodies
Eyes burn
Fatigue sets into comfortable grooves
Clicking into place
First day, goes well
Gonna beat this illness back
Sick once or twice a year
You tell yourself
Then the second day, a little tired
But you forget to eat
Except you never forget to eat
But here it’s end of the rope, no energy left, collapse into bed time
And why do I feel so hollow
Because your body is burning everything up to get better and you haven’t eaten
Go to sleep
Fever again, breaks again
Solace that it took less time
But again, symptoms grow as the core illness fades
Would rather the pain
Than this runny nose

The flensing knife turns inward

I’ve been creatively burnt out for the last few weeks. It’s not entirely anything to do with the big things like work or relationships. It’s the little things that I have let eat away at my free time. Leaving me with no time to sit and be. No time to experience the world as time slips away.

Being so busy that any time…and here I have to stop and redirect because work crept in. Because it’s gotten to be insidious. It slips into any crack which if I turn it off, it becomes that I was unreachable and that is the issue.

Which is why I am writing this at 4am.

In alot of ways work is better, my relationship is better but my friendships and my writing and my actual life seems to have all suffered.

I have never been one to strike a balance. I throw myself completely into things. And that passion sees me through but it also breaks me.

It’s the inevitable, inexorable schism between what is needful and what is best. And much as I thrive in the situation where the world is burning and every action I make can turn the rudder, eventually…the boat sinks and the drowning begins.

And I am oh so weary of dying by inches in that way.
Something has to happen. And I don’t know if I have the mental fortitude to make the life choices required.

It seems like I was so much happier when I was a villain. But maybe it was just that I was young and didn’t see the terminus. The inevitability of less ahead than behind.

Soft breathe which catches on waking

We are bent flower promises
Our light touches over skin
Hands soft but ridged in callouses
A legacy of past actions written in scar and stretch
Wrinkle and aches in joints
Broken bones which
Now healed still click
For all of this
Is our passion less for being out of focus
Beyond the lens of society
Or instead
Is passion which knows itself
The more powerful
We who survive and still find each other despite the wounds of the past
Still open ourselves
Vulnerable and exposed
Is our love less
For having been born from a distant song
Or instead
Is it strength to find a heart that’s bright and desirous
And in the knowing
We find beauty
And flame
And the circling of fingertips against skin
The brushing of lips against neck
The soft smile and the lascivious grin
And a hope
Born in the taste of her