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My hands are shaking
My heart is racing
My feet are pacing
They think I'm faking

My bones turn to stone
It's all I've ever known
My muscles atrophy
Pain got the best of me

It's invisible and deceitful
Failures made me cynical
Solutions are only temporary
This body of mine is the enemy

Inflammation spreads like wildfire
I'm tired of being so tired
Nothing stops the torture, but
I'm fighting like a soldier

My body rebels
It is a prison cell
Trapped in my own ****
Gunshots fire inside
I really have tried
1/24/18
Annelise Camille Jul 2017
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as ***** souls bearing no heavy shells.
Sometimes I believe my body is cursed
When I am burdened with all this pain
Wearing my disability like a bright, red stain
I think ahead to many years when it’ll be worse
When I can’t pick up a pen or unbutton my shirt
Or finish school or start a career
When more and more limitations start to appear
Sometimes I believe my body is cursed
Susie Oct 6
I arrive 20 minutes early.
I wait for an hour.

"So, here's the thing. I've done all I can, we have tried all of the medications we could for you. Because of your very unique case and all of your, limitations, this is extremely tricky to treat. We can send you to a more in depth specialist. There is a waitlist and it's a four hour drive."

I am nodding. I ask every question under the sun that could help me at all.
He says I cannot do anything else besides what I am aready doing.

It's okay it's okay it's okay.
Don't cry. Cry later. I love you. You're strong. You're okay. Don't cry, don't cry.

I schedule a checkup appointment for 6 months from now. I say goodbye and have a good day.
I'm so tired so having this body that was made wrong.
Alaina Moore Sep 8
Crying on the couch
thinking in circles,
when I look down to my phone.
It has an open, blank, message,
to my drug dealer.
"Woh, how did that get there?"
I close the message.

That was close.
Alaina Moore Sep 5
"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.
What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.
What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. *******, that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and get disappointment when we don't achieve them.
What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.
What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.
What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.
What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.
Somewhat outside of my normal style.
Alaina Moore Jul 12
So I just did some math.
This week,
according to the numbers,
I've consumed on average
375 calories a day.
Call it 500.
I have no appetite;
I'm stressed;
It's hot;
I'm ill.
This relapse is
not like the ones I know.
It's so subconscious
I'm drowning
trying to fix it.
I tremble as I write this.
I don't know how I get through the day.
But I do know,
there is a mountain
of responsibilities
that I must manage
regardless.
I can't just over medicate
and play games
when I'm stressed.
I can't rest when I'm sick.
I must bare it all,
for both of us.
I'm being crushed
by this mountain.
Honestly don't know if this poem makes sense.
Alaina Moore Jun 18
I have a savvy relationship with pain.
Particularly the kind that my nerves play out;
a cruel fiction science is still trying to workout.
Luckily, it's not harmful, it just hurts.
It would be fair to say that I don't like pain.
Being a daily greeter at my bedside table,
the moment I consider opening my eyes.
I would be contradictory, yet fair all the same,
to say that I like pain.
Not the random pain I was born with,
but controlled pain.
That once consisted of self-inflicted
lines of distraction.
Or any distraction that calmed the storm.
Lately my therapist advised squeezing ice cubes,
it surprisingly... works well.
My relationship with pain is involuntary,
self-inflicted or otherwise.
Curse or coping,
It is something I cannot escape.
I have day dreams of what 'normal' must feel like,
yet also wonder if any of us are not in pain.
I wish I wasn't alone in my relationship with pain.
Pain is a feeling, it does not negotiate.
It has driven me to madness.
It has made me want to clime stairs while I still can.
It motivates me and rips me to shreds,
simultaneously.
So when deeper pains come into play,
like the depression that grows within me.
Survival becomes a challenge,
because my mind can only shift around pain so much.
Eventually I will fall.
Literally, figuratively, or both.
You have to be there to catch me,
but I don't know if you're ready.
Alaina Moore May 11
Joints simply electric.
Aware of every muscle.
Feel heavier today,
Did I wake up on Jupiter?
No, just barometric pressure.
Each step a chore;
Try not to let it show.
My mind compensating,
Trying to ignore what the brain perceives.
By then end of the day I am wasteland.
Existence becomes intolerable.
It's times like these I forget,
That my minds on constant auto pilot.
"It's not pain it's pressure"
"It's all a misfire"
"This isn't real."
Without a rested mind,
I melt, I burn, I'm plagued by electric waves.
Harshly remained of what I daily ignore.
Some days I can't do it,
Today is one.
I wrote this during a pretty intense flare up. During a time when I was overburdened with many existential factors of life that I could not focus on ignoring the pain - and so - I was harshly reminded about how important it is to my condition to have a healthy mind.
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