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I am no more solid than a dense fog in a glass jar.
My borders and boundaries are defined by my container.
I occupy this space, bereft of internal orientation or direction, floating amorphously.
Without containment, I would all but disappear.
To free me is to destroy me; there can be no trial.
Life is an ill fitting garment
And I with no needle and thread.
We hear about ****** assualt more these days,
and yes that has happened; Me, too.
But we don't talk as much about the near misses.
The time when I said no
and he tried a few times and gave up
Or the times I said no
and he put himself inside me for just a moment before rolling off
Or the times I said no
and he put himself inside me
for a few minutes
Until I grew louder and pushed him off.
The time
with my boyfriend
when I consented
But half way through his mood changed
and it did not feel loving
Or respectful.
It felt vindictive
And cold
and he must have felt my body
But he continued anyway.
Or the times
Too many to count
with my husband
That I participated
because I knew resisting would
Lead to an argument
Or anger
and sometimes
Was that ****, too?
I don't tally it under the same column.
But it wasn't fun.
And I think about it often.
And my body feels fluish.
Like the sense you get that a cold is coming on.
But it never fully surfaces
So I can never fully recover.
Something howls through a dense, dark fog.
My body lurches toward the sound, and I am mindful of the tickling reverberation in the bones around my collar.
Would most in my shoes plan their escape?
Find cover?
Grasp to find a branch or iron, something to fend off an unseen attacker?
But I lean in.
And despite a wave of neaseau echoing through my viscera, I mouth a wordless prayer that the beast find me.
Put his face against my soft flesh
and press hard with a snout, or maw, until I feel that canine dripping in excitatory salivation.
My own saliva to meet his
as I smile in relief, and am torn open for once and last.
If you're going to live with your head in the sand
I beg of you, inhale.
Take an ear
Turn it upward
And listen
Til your lungs scream and threaten you
Keep listening
Til your legs shake and muscles burn
Listen further
Until you start to loathe the sand
And you see the unpredictable open air as the luscious power it is.
Depression is a cage.

In the brilliant turning of foliage, a ripe green to a fervid red, a weighty dread follows close as a shadow
and grows longer,
I'll be cajoled into six sides of jointed aluminum
shrinking on the daily
until my lungs are flat and stiff as a starched collar.
My chest is concaved, a ******* wound.
I am prisoner to my elements.
Stockholm syndrome
And I can only succumb
to the unsettling security in immobility.
This cage provides my structure,
and I grow accustomed to it
Giving in to its indifference

A dismal awakening in
six moons
and the hatch door springs open.
I'm anxious and cursing the piercing golden beams for
my muscles have atrophied
and a faint memory of bipedal motion comes rolling in.
The cage disappears
But I'm weak, immobile still and
resentful of this freedom
and the work it requires.
Slowly I wiggle my toes, I turn side to side
and listen for the cracks and pops of my fragile frame, harnessing a solar energy.
Feeling returns, filling the concavity in my chest.
Im flooded.
Free now
but timid
My skeleton is dusty from disuse
I stretch and cry out.
Tendons, ligaments regaining their power
Breath returns and
I turn towards the Sun and exhale fully, sending sparks flying.
In respiration, though, I note that static fear, warning me that my liberation comes with a debt.
I am eternal animate obligation.
When my head was through the trees, soaring past the outer limits of our atmosphere and touching the winking star tips, those barely perceptible by the unarmed eye,
I peered into the redness and gnashing of the arbors.
They stared back. They gnashed and smirked, growing more eerie, more perilous.
I sunk deep in my canvas seat, and feared the dark overwhelm inherent within.
My breath grew shallow and pinpricks laddered up my neck.
The calm returned, with aid, in stories of t-shirts, family, middle fingers to power.
And I pondered if peace would follow once the me I was in that, or any, moment, made nice with the toothy demons.
"The darkness in me acknowledges the darkness in you."
We nod in effortless concession and pass all moments by, unhindered.
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