Is it wrong?
That the only thing I want for my birthday is either
1) a loaded gun or
2) to BE as loaded as the gun mentioned above?

But maybe there is a third, less fatal option.

To slowly, deeply,
Slice tiny rivers into flesh.
In an effort not to conceal the pain in me,
Rather to transform it.
With a feeling so physical,
So visceral, it won't be ignored.

I think about these things in reverse succession.

First the blood, seeping out of my veins, Messying everything,
Yet making tidy my brain.

Then the blood. A shooting star. A plume rushing in, and then pushed back into its place.

And finally.
So finally.
The one deed that can end all the others before they begin.
Saving me the shame of acting as either a foolish schoolgirl, or a selfish ***** Only thinking of this moment.
And how best to stuff the screams back into myself.

Other people see only what I let peek through.
Small bits,
The false bottom
Tidying the Dark.
I risk too much in showing.

Yet, somehow,
Despite my efforts,
You startle me.
Glimpsing, somehow, by sheer luck or will or oneness,
That which has never been seen before.

Amazingly,
Miraculously,
Terrifyingly,
You don't look away in horror or shame.

And I begin to unfold.

And you with giant scissors ceremoniously releasing me from myself.

Does everyone have these terrifying moments of lucidity?
When that stranger catches you in the mirror
And holds you there as if to say,
"Who the **** are YOU"

And you realize in that moment
In that gaze
That all of you-
Who, and What you are-
None of it has been a choice.
Not yours anyway.

Because this person
Who lives in the world,
The one glaring at you now,
Doesn't reflect who you feel you are.

And the weight of the thing leans into your chest until you're forced to look away.
Head between your knees, fighting for breath.
Fighting for control of this bag of skin and blood and consciousness.
Not because you want to.

It's easier not to fight.

But the guilt of surrender seems too large
So you thrash about always in your head
Beating that stranger down.
Until you can look up, ******, without flinching.

We were soldiers in our own war. Fighting every day to stay alive. And Despite all odds,
Despite the casualties,
Despite living a life knowing we shouldn't survive,
We did.

Now we're each a reminder to the other of the horrors we faced. Things you can't un-see. Moments you can't un-live.

I wonder if you can look at me,
Really see me now and not then.

Were it not for our service together,
I'd be a different person.
I know that.
Perhaps no better or worse.
Still seeping rage- transposed to longing.
And the absolute lucidity that this life I've made for myself is broken.
Despite my need for un-brokenness.

It's all enough to throw me back into the arms of war. Comforted by the warm tenacity of survival.
The relief of contemplating a singular goal.
And the knowledge that there truly is nothing else out there for me.

But, for today, I resist the call
Yet leave my rifle half cocked, at the ready.
For tomorrow may be different when it comes.

There's just something about lately that feels so terribly out of place.
Like I've been transplanted into someone else's everything.
Her body
Her thoughts
Her affairs.
Different from the mundanity to which I had grown so accustomed.
Perhaps exciting
Mostly terrifying
Like picking up grains of salt,
I may never understand.
Never finished with her.