Saegly

Saegly 1d

When will they see me, a pretty, pink rose petal?

The urge to handle gently, and smooth me through their finger tips.
Or the urge to destroy, rip me piece by piece, and muddle me under their shoe.

It seems I am not worthy of such instincts.

Innocently, you pull me from my stem, with the intention to behold and cherish me. I forget to ask if, perhaps, you'd like my flower too. I mistake your innocence for love.

In your pocket I am kept. You feel better knowing I am close. I am happy to be close. You smile everytime you think of me. How sweet. You wish to hold onto me forever. How kind.

Naivety, you forget I am a petal, or perhaps you never even knew. You forget to put me in the pages of your book. I must be warm inside your dark, denim pocket...

When I am remembered, it's too late. The washer has run me through. I am *****. I am broken. I am no longer a petal.

When will they see me, a tragic, wilted rose petal?

The urge to put me to rest peacefully, to cherish the beautiful memories, to pray for regrowth as they lay me gently in the garden.
Or the urge to cringe at my crinkled mess, toss me in the garbage, rinse me from my vase, sweep up every nagging speck of me from their floor.

It seems I am only shame.

The love for me, you regret. Mistakenly, you thought I could be forever on my own, but pink does not become brighter in the dark. I am left, decayed, freyed, a mess. Your tears fall only for the petal I am not.

You don't claim the jeans with the pocket...
Knowing you did something wrong, and knowing no one else can make it right.

You grow from your mistakes. I rot.

The rose petal metaphor is based on a memory from my childhood where I excitedly put a rose petal in a bag in my room. It made me happy to look at sometimes, but I forgot it until one day I remembered and checked to see a sad brown liquid. I cried for days and regretted picking the petal instead of cherishing it on the rose bush.

Saegly May 9

Disordered Identity

How can an identitiy break even before it's been developed?

Like a prototype.

abandoned

Just as inspiration strikes.

One day you grow concious,
and you hear your thoughts aloud.
"This is me, and I exist!"

You don't notice the change
in your mind's...
My minds...
Our minds
echos.

What once was familiar is suddenly cracked.
Do you even remember what you used to sound like?

Confused, you think
Theives!!
How you've stolen what's mine!
But it's there. Somewhere there.
Feeling something. But not me.

Recently a friend of mine came out to me as having DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). As him and I align, perfectly the same, in our processing of trauma, suddenly, something shifted in my brain. Like a door that had been locked, clicking open for the first time. It makes me think of the ways I may be split up, and it is overwhemingly scary when "Me" starts to become "Us". (for anyone concerned about self-diagnosis, these are just my thoughts and feelings, and not any definite conclusion for myself. I have professionals in my life who I can rely on for help and understanding in this matter)

Saegly Apr 4

I live in my head

It's noisy in the city.
There's constant busy busy.
So much must be lost in the movement.
The taxi makes one wrong turn,
And it's all in the gutter!
There's so many signs to stop,
But nothing really does.
There's always something speeding by.

It's so noisy in the city.
Nighttime finds no exception.
The lights go off only to be replaced
By brighter ones.
The busy is less, but louder.
Now the neon signs are traps.
Set to lure you into a deep hole.
Sometimes you follow their flicker
On purpose.
But now the neighbors are awake
And they question your life choices
As you try to sneak away.

It really is noisy in the city!
You wake up to bang bang!
Cause things gotta be fixed
That shoudn't have been problems.
The morning's the perfect motivator!
Right.
The ringing hurts your ears,
So you drink that fresh cup of coffee,
Only to be dragged
Into the noisy streets again.

But I don't live in the city.

This is an old poem of mine. I wrote it about mundane life from a literal and metaphorical perspective.

Saegly Apr 1

Trauma Envy

The curse of ugly pain.

The pain, a sickly moldy green.

A consuming envy,

shameful distaste for those who have it worse.

Pain that could have been pink.

The pink of a soft pastel gown.

Tattered and torn by evil hands.

Glitter band-aids on pink fleshy wounds.

Pain that could have been red.

The red of screaming terror.

Forever crimson scars.

Vibrant past, unmistakable.

Green pain is mundane.

It blends into the grass and trees.

It rots you from the inside.

A perfect gourd, left on the patio,

Thrown out when it starts to smell.

Because of trauma being stigmatized, it can be easy to think that your pain needs to be something different in order to be accepted. This leads to craving an aesthetic kind of struggle that doesn't truly exist. It wouldn't matter if you were prettier, louder, more hurt. There will always be people who don't understand you. It is important to heal yourself and not your image.

Saegly Mar 19

Unmasking

How do you know how to feel?
When your mind's split in two
And you try to be real
But don't know who's you.

How do you know what to think?
When your head contradicts
And you try not to sink
But you don't know the tricks.

How do you know what to say?
When your heart breaks inside
And you try to be sane
But feel like you've died.

I wrote this poem when I started to realize the heavy effects masking had on my self-perception. When I started braking down the parts of me I had kept visible for my survival, it felt like I was two different people.

Saegly Feb 23

Fawning

I am just a child,
and I am just a fawn.
I am just a lamb,
and I am just a pawn.

I am just a petal,
and I am just a piglet.
I am just a pillow,
and I am just a twig.

I am just a cloud,
and I am just a dream.
I am just a candy,
and I am just a cream.

I am just a pebble,
and I am just a worm.
I am just the dirt,
and I will never learn.

People are often familiar with the "fight or flight" response, but this poem, using metaphors, highlights some of the different ways people may experience the brain's fawn response. This includes regression, self-sacrifice, self-sexualization, dissociation, etc...

Saegly Jan 22

Dissociating

Sometimes I am barely a person.
Just a walking, talking doll, waiting for instruction.

I feel like a faraway dream.
Just waiting for them to give or take my autonomy.

The only time I can feel for myself
is when I'm manic, in panic, screaming for help.

When I'm in this place, it is spiritual.
Death waits patiently, anticipating at my door.

So far from reality, lost in a place of need.
Feed me your attention and pull on my leash.

This poem holds a lot of the same feelings as my last, but more from a perspective of dissociation. This is a coping mechanism that can make you feel out of body, in a dream, and not in control of your physical actions.