#autoimmune
I can breathe,
they tell me that first,
lungs rising, falling,
numbers steady,
oxygen obedient in my blood.
So why
does it feel like I am suffocating
inside a body
that won’t let me out?
My muscles whisper no
when I ask them for anything,
eyes blur,
limbs fade,
voice weakens like a dying echo.
And somewhere in the quiet panic
is the truth I cannot escape:
without the steroids,
my chest could forget how to rise at all.
So I take them.
I take the breath
and swallow the chaos with it.
And then the storm begins.
Lights are too loud.
Sounds are too sharp.
Crowds press against my skin
like I am being peeled open from the inside.
Time moves too fast,
faster than I can keep up,
faster than I can mother,
faster than I can be me.
I am holding a toddler
while unraveling quietly,
smiling, responding, existing,
while something feral and frantic
paces inside my ribs.
I clean.
I fix.
I perfect.
I chase control in straight lines and folded edges,
as if order could stitch me back together.
But it doesn’t.
Because this body,
this swollen, restless, foreign shell,
is not the one I remember.
Not the one that felt like home.
I look at myself
and feel like a visitor
trapped behind my own eyes.
And when the overwhelm crests,
when the noise and the pressure and the too much
spill over,
my body flares.
Again.
And the answer is always the same,
more medication,
more infusions,
more cycles of saving
and unraveling
and saving again.
A loop with no clean edges.
A breath that costs everything.
I can breathe.
Yes.
My lungs obey.
My vitals behave.
But my mind is drowning
in a body that feels like it’s closing in,
tight, loud, relentless.
So tell me,
if air is filling my chest,
why does it still feel
like I am suffocating?
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 1:09 AM UTC
I’m stuck,
but I’m not.
I move.
I breathe.
I write.
Yet nothing truly shifts.
Thousands of thoughts crash
against the throbbing cathedral of my skull,
each one louder than the last,
a storm that never learns to pass.
My head spins in circles.
Words spill out
like inked blood, I can’t stop bleeding.
All I do is write.
I write to keep from vanishing,
I write to remember
that I once had laughter,
once had light behind my eyes.
It’s been months
since my reflection felt familiar,
since my smile wasn’t rehearsed,
since I laughed
and believed it belonged to me.
No one has noticed.
No one asks.
They see me,
but they don’t look.
They don’t see how I lie down
because sitting takes too much strength,
how I slather lotion on my skin
as if to hold myself together,
pretending it’s self-care,
when it’s really survival.
At night,
I whisper to the ceiling’s shadowed beams,
asking if it remembers
what happiness feels like.
It never answers.
It only watches.
Its silence older than prayer,
as I fade into stillness,
a ghost in my own story.
I am invisible.
A presence mistaken for air,
a sigh mistaken for silence.
The signs pass through me,
their lives loud and certain,
while I drown quietly
beneath the noise of my own mind.
And yet …
a part of me still writes.
Still believes
that words might one day
pull me from the wreckage.
That someone, somewhere,
will read my words,
and see me.
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 8:21 PM UTC
There once was a family of clouds,
Blue were their noses and blue were their shrouds.
Amongst them lived 3 outcasts, though
As though through the blue, someone had brazenly run a plough!
Blotchy, whitey and marbly let’s call them,
Of the big blue sky, they were the beautifully botched hem.
The smurfy blues didn’t think so, alas!
And neither did the the puppets on the ground, peeping through the looking glass.
Rain was their saviour,
For amidst those tears, no one would notice their stark behaviour.
The smurfy blues covered them up,
Lest someone see their erroneous turf.
Then shone the sun one fine day,
And like rising phoenixes, the castaways came out to play.
For a thing such as beauty, ever so fickle
They were a miraculous honey-hued trickle.
The puppets on the ground too swapped their loyalties,
And soon the alleged drops of milk were favoured royalties.
The sky too embraced the cotton-ous hue amidst the smurfy blue,
And just like that, their fairytale slowly came true.
Feb 8, 2025
Feb 8, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
Creeping crawling
Waiting stalking...
You sit there in wait
As if a planned date
Of which, I do not know
Why are you staring little crow?
You sit and watch beating hearts
'Til the harvest starts
I almost tune out the evil laugh
That you bellow from deep within your wrath
And almost forget where you reside
That is, within me, deep inside
Your jar of souls collected slowly
You take your time being unholy
You go into hibernation away from the watchful cavists
You do not mind though, for winters calm brings great Spring harvests
You feast and feast devouring bit by bit
You take piece by piece encouraging me to submit
Fighting the pain,
Fighting in vein...
Tearing me down, nonstop
As if I your crop
Little crow caws in joyous evil song
Release me from your grasp, I beg all night long
You come and go
And reap what I sow
Taking my strength and will to fight
Chomping down into flesh throughout the night
Released once more, you hide away again
I almost forget, but you have written it in permanent pen
You wrote "Never forget, sweet child, I am you keeper.
Sincerely,
The Soul Reaper."
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
An autoimmune of a nation,
why are you letting your wrath
stemmed from crisis
burst open like lysosomes?
Why do you digest
yourself and one of your own?
Don't you take pride
when the one who has the same
nation weaved on his skin
uplifts the wavering flag of your land?
Why would you mute
and suppress them
rather than water them,
like the beautiful nature that
blooms from your own ground?
Why would you steal
and harm your brothers and sisters,
letting your mentality succumb
to toxic-narrow confinements?
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 3:02 AM UTC
A beautiful mountain, white with snow
A light breeze, a wind ice cold
Frozen in time, I stare in awe
Under ice is a heart so raw
Diamonds glistening, ice shimmering
An imbalance of time and minds dancing
Beauty and despair frozen in ice
Waiting for summer sun to pay the price
Still and quiet, but the pain screams in your head
Frozen in place beside your bed
Staring into the pains
A hundred rocks flow through your veins
A thousand needles biting skin
Outward calm, but screaming within
Summer warmth approaching
Ice slowly melting, diamonds gleaming
With perseverance you break the ice
It falls, shattering, what a sacrifice
I watch as there is nothing I can do
As your body shed the ice encasing you
It is beauty and despair, intertwined
Dripping to the floor, Oh how I adore
To watch you come alive. An uproar!
No longer frozen, full of motion
As if watching a glistening ocean
You stand tall, high above us all
For you melted the ice, made it fall
Leaving only a memory
Your fight so strong, dauntlessly
Standing, living, believing, and yet...
Your feet are wet, so with regret
I must inform of icy returns
Gone are the days of summer sunburns
For ice will come, it will be done
Your body shunned from our warm sun
You will freeze again, be lost again
Icy diamonds will shine like back then
You must remain strong while waiting,
Frozen in time that is crippling
Shed your ice everyday, overcome
One day Summer will stay and all this will be done
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
I am a passenger
In my own body.
Everything’s heavy
Memories spotty.
Working away
On a beautiful day
Until my heart begins to race
Adrenaline pumping
But still I’m exhausted.
Lay down on the floor
Feet up in the sky
Get blood to my brain
And continue on with my night.
An engulfing weight
Holding me tight
Pushing me farther
From consciousness’ light
I can hear you, yes.
All that comes out is a breath.
And then again,
I’m drifting away.
I can hear everything they say.
“Open your eyes”
They flutter, sight blocked
I can not
And again
My vision is spotty
A passenger in my body.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
Sick.
Cough.
Sneeze.
Groan.
Sick.
My sick is different.
My sick follows me like a dark cloud every second of every day.
My sick stalks me like a lion, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Sick.
My joints ache as I walk, but I keep walking.
My stomach burns as I eat, but I keep eating.
My insides scream as I smile, but I keep smiling.
Sick.
I keep the sick hidden under a smile.
I accept it as my best friend and worst enemy.
I have learned to be tough so I won’t become my sick.
Sick.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
You're right, it was a lie, a joke,
It's a hysterical sight when I forget, so I sigh,
It was a hoax...
I love to sleep 14 to 70 hours each day and how much I weigh, That's just a positive gain,
How'd you know I never had pain?
I purposely cancel plans at the end,
Who'd want to keep friends?
I just lie about it to seek attention,
being called a liar was my whole intention...
I am not sick or tired,
I just enjoy being called lazy, it's good for my self-esteem... when I do get out to look pale and wearing no makeup,
I no longer care about.
You can't see the illness on the outside, you can't see my body attacking itself, healthy brain cells killing oneself, so I made up the autoimmune disease by myself...
No need to look forward to remissions, good health doesn't need omission,
No need to ask for prayer, for what's wrong with me(on my behalf), they'll find a cure, after all , my cells are pure, and you can't see the disease that I have.
Glad I made you laugh,
When God heals and take's it away,
Then you'll know I never had it anyway. -Jencie
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
It was, surprising to say the least.
You would throw me to the side for that beast.
I had been respectful and pure.
She called you **** on your timeline.
I needed to be sure.
She stated, "told you, love you" about your test.
I spent a lot of time discussing that test with you, so you could do your best.
She said, "Told you, Love you!" on your post.
I think she's the one you love the most.
After all, you screamed at me for simply begging the question, "are you an item?"
You blocked me.
You yelled at me.
All over her.
I've been nothing but nice to you.
I wish you could say the same.
If you put up with me, what good is that.
If you love me, tell, me. Show me, even better.
God, you can't even send me a letter.
At first, I thought I would only lose one.
I was devastated.
How could I go on!
All alone with a dying child.
My heart so tender, so faint, so mild.
Then, it happened, so plain to see.
Another child will be leaving me.
The disease struck both.
The genetics clear.
Now I live my days worried in fear.
For there is another child, youngest who has shown little signs.
All I can do now is pray and wait on the time.
I am not immune to the pain.
I am not immune to the sorrow.
Warm tears flow down my old cheeks.
How could I watch them suffer!
I can hold them, as they cry.
Who will comfort me after?
Where is my love?
I'm so alone and they'll be gone.
For naught was my escape with them?
For naught was my raising these little ones in love?
How God, how should I suffer so?
Alone. Again. It's a place, I know.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
Half in dark, hiding out,
back against a wall,
any one, will do for me,
all I seek in dreams.
Here before, here again,
remnants strewn about,
between the door and me,
shine under the moon.
I'm to blame, prophecies
rolling in with rain,
hold me tightly in sleep
Loneliness, a poem that,
written by my own hand,
paints bridges with glitter mixed
up with broken glass.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC