I used to be
Able to read,
But recently,
Your words seem
To move on
Their own.
Why can’t I read your words?

I used to be
Able to hear,
But recently,
Your presence seems
To lenite
On its own.
Why can’t I hear your gaze?

I used to be
Able to feel,
But recently,
Your sound seems
To lose tact
On its own.
Why can’t I feel your noise?

I used to be
Weak.
Recently,
Your being has
Ceased to be
By my hand.
Why have I
Become agnostic to you?

I used to be
Able to think,
But now, frequently,
You seamlessly
Fill my thoughts
On your own.
Why can’t I remember you?

I used to be
Able to know,
But at some point,
You seem to have
Left me
On my own.
Where did I end up falling?

I’ve always wondered
What strength was,
And after time,
It seems that I’ve
Learned
On my own.
I wonder if you did too.

I was born to be his mother
I squeeze him tight
Always the last to let go
I show him how to hold a hand
How feelings also make a man

I was born to be his mother
I wipe his nose
Look him deep in his eyes
I teach him words and how to stand
He teaches back, I make sure he knows he can

I was born to be his mother
I turn the sound down so he can hear
I make the lights bright so he can feel warmth
We play in puddles and build with sand
I thought he’d walk, but then he ran

I love you, I hate you, I pull, and I push,
My heart's in a tangle, a wild, restless hush.
I want you, I crave you, I’m lost in this tide,
No compass to guide me, no place left to hide.

So read through my words, each tangled-up thought,
As if they were notes that confusion has wrought.
Sing me a song, let the melody sweep,
And carry me softly, gently to sleep.

In verses of heartache, in whispers of grace,
Let echoes of comfort find their own place.
For here I am drifting, unsure and afraid,
A soul in a song that the night has replayed

My brain has been torn apart
Crumpled together
And smeared across the billboards of my timeline
My heart shredded and trampled on
My body has seen torments and tortures
That parents fear and
Don’t understand the possibility.
I was told it was my fault.
Every action had its cause.
Every act of terror had its reason.
Me.

But it was never my fault.

I wasn’t the reason I hated this thigh,
Or this skin
Or these bones.
Or this brain
This way of thinking.

Nothing was ever wrong with me.