I unravelled my thoughts on a public page.

I type this, sitting in my living room,
thousands of miles from where I was born,
in the middle of a work day,
avoiding responsibilities.

I suppose not much has changed.

And yet

There's a dreaming dog at my feet.
The table is decorated with dried flowers,
and under it, a tablecloth I spent too much on.
A tablecloth we spent too much on.

Happiness in the mundane -- is this what that is?

my mind has been an empty chasm of forgotten words
i was a writer who can no longer write
a storyteller with no stories to tell
an artist with dried up paint and a broken easel
but

i forget that
i am also a person
a broken, timid person
once whole, once sure, once loved,
once
          me.

i can no longer distinguish pain from pleasure;
abuse from affection; contusions from caresses.
embraces could be delivered in tightly-clenched fists;
words of affirmation in abasement; trust in forced hands.
i can't tell the difference between love and hurt;
dark bruises and soft kisses; belittlement and support.

all i am familiar with now is the aftermath -
the tears, the marks, the aches;
hot showers soothing stinging skin, shaky knees and trembling hands;
the nauseating guilt; encapsulating, overwhelming fear

and the sickening inability to just walk away.

i'm not sure how-
how to break this cycle
the constant pounding in my head
the incessant whispers
the persistent hurt
the frustrating reiteration
each one more needless

fall after fall after f
                                   a
                                       l
                                          l

I am not a poet
But when thoughts, like rain,
Drench me in my solitude,
Words, they flow like a stream.
I am not a poet
But how can I see
The simpler joys of life,
And not create a song to be sung.
I am not a poet,
Nor an artist.
I am myself,
And you are my masterpiece.
I am not a poet,
If you are not the dream.
If I am a poet,
*Then you are what sets these pages on fire.