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.