I was a child
When fantasies of unending sleep enthralled me.
And every waking moment
Was spent pondering pain,
That familiar friend
That settled itself in my head.
The battle became so all consuming
That I was convinced
Of my dependency on it.
For art, for passion, for sensation,
I needed that ****** fight.
But as much as I believed
That the burn was a worthy sensation,
At the same time
Nerve damage ravaged my weak body
And my ability to feel,
Even that burn,
Seemed to have abandoned me.
This vacillating fight,
Between agony and paralysis,
Persuaded me, manipulated me,
Into believing it would never cease,
That I would never have a moment of peace
To breathe.
But I make myself dinner
And open the floral curtains
To let the golden, rural sun soak my kitchen.
This place is mine
And as improbable as it sounds,
I am alive.
And not only can I breathe
Without hearing violent screams
Echo throughout my body,
I sit on my grass green couch
And bask in moments of genuine, solitary
Joy.
Look at me,
No less scarred and broken,
No less hysterical yet apathetic.
But these moments of elation
That I never thought possible
Are becoming more and more frequent.
Satisfaction and mourning
For the dark child I was
Are present together in my heart.
Side by side, I feel regret for lost time,
Lost moments of splendor
And delight in my growth,
Amusement in my perfectly okayness.