I can't stop cleaning
My knuckles are dry
Red
Rivers of disinfectant fill the parched cracks of my skin
A storm in a gorge
There's too much dust
A sandstorm
I swipe it away
It comes back!
Dark grey tufts of storm clouds
That I, with my
Mighty Hand
Brush away
Insignificant

But it's not nothing
I know what it is

I tear the filled pages
Out of my notebook
Cast them away
They're impure
Scribbled on
Clean white pages are all I need
The purity of sacred bleach

Smell the chemicals, the cleanliness
Destroy the dust, keep order
Tear the paper, fall like rain

It's never nothing
I know what it is

Today marks one month of sobriety.
I’m happy with myself I’m staying clean.
I’m experiencing first hand why getting clean seems like an insurmountable task,
why it’s inherently formidable.
It’s not because of the task of getting clean itself, its because of everything that’s in my face while I’m clean-
the trauma, the distressing emotions & thoughts, the self defeating conditioning. It’s all clear as day, it’s inescapable now.

ankles held firm
his shoulders lurch

branches loom ahead
I duck in ashen forests

'Do all Uncle says,'
Mother spat again

face is stinging
air's thinning

I'm milk-bag
sleepy

he yanks
me higher

~~~~

'Here we are
my sweet!'

the stiff door
creaks slowly

his treacle tone
mocks the dust

dead moths stir
in alarm

~~~~

I'm flung
down

mat's
hard

he's
in me

I die

again

they all do it

~~~~

I disappear to
holes in the wall

they watch in silence
and let me stay on

cold-blooded fire
burns red

do I live
numb

I pray

~~~~

staring out the
window I see

sifted icing
sugar peaks

my Mountain
smiles strong

sparkling clean
in warming sun

Whoever made it
is my Friend

a gift

for life

~~~~

it's my
birthday

I'm two

~~~~~~~

#child #innocence #destroyed #alone #mountain #clean #strong

Sunday morning, I am running at the farm market,
For buying three pounds of organic enlightenment,
Glutes tight, chest stiff,
Every single step is marked on the asphalt,
A little bird pooped on my forehead,
Hoaxed by this joke I stepped on some dog ****,
That got me mad even more, while an old lady asked me
to carry her over the pit. I mimic, wait
“I will give you help after, I am in a hurry,
I want to buy three pounds of organic enlightenment”
I keep running, every Sunday morning at the farm market.

oscillating between extremes

the seesaw tilts, slamming the body into hurtful,
no genteel daisy picking, nope, love me, love me not,
the mind playing warped ideologies, you, tossed about

I want her; all men do; the rapture is coming, her eyes,
preach to the converted and the soon-to-be; join her,
her semi-colon smile, represents a hell of near-completion!

discourse, pleadings, all for naught, she, teacher/grader,
A or F, frenzied thrown to the ground, her lips say oops,
but we know, a throwing intentional, a mastery of reminder!

barbs of  batting eyelids, whipping tongue tips reveal daggers,
woe is me, whoa I plead, there is no mercies extant, instead, we
oscillate up and down, tween extremes, I need her, can’t have her!

I hate her! and myself, for myself, I love her so, my hate for her is less
than our mutual mocking of me...

————

we oscillate between extremes, at least, we are together...