Suffering is an art form

Like everything I have ever done
I have mastered it

The slow murmur of movement
Dogged by depression

The hummingbird’s frantic song
Of anxiety

The drifting of days marked only
By the ticking of a broken watch

I am war
And famine
And disease

For as long as I have breathed air
It has been poisonous

A toxic oxygen

I have learnt the art of dying
Without death

The finality of it never quite succeeding
The motion of my desire for it

I want to purge my body of the filth
That has been inflicted on it

Trauma that seems impossible to carry
On my shoulders

I am a tree grown from a bitter root
Planted into the ground as an afterthought

My braches twisted, leaves that will never know
The brilliant colours of autumn

But I stand, still
Weathered and beaten and broken

Still, I stand