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.

A battle so all consuming,
I was certain
Of my dependence on it.
For art, for passion, for sensation,
I needed that ****** fight.

Though as much as I believed
Burning was a worthy sensation,
Nerve damage ravaged my weak body.
My ability to feel,
Even the scorching itself,
Abandoned me.

This vacillating strain
Between agony and paralysis,
Persuaded me, manipulated me,
To believe it was eternal,
To accept I would never know peace
Or effortless breath.

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.