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#thyroid
3AM, one night of May 25 Run out of fuel to move around “Imbalance, impatient”, was I. Called a Dr, to get some help Wondered, “what is your problem?” Umm, “I never know what peace is.” Fatigue, swelling, loss of memory Feeling low and much more, all I get. Achievement of life Umm, gaining 3 pounds of weight every month Blood work was out of range, Homeostasis was not on my side Felt of lost in transition, Between Heaven and Hell. “Dr., am I going to die?” Tempting to release the constant fear Stupid arguments that haunt every time. “Calm down, it’s not too late”, “Don’t escape from the realms of reality”, “Let the awareness spread”, “Fight, support and advocate”, “Seek a path of peaceful harmony”, “Let’s make 25th May, bigger”, He said.
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Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
mystic-ink-plus
25th May
3AM, one night of May 25 Run out of fuel to move around “Imbalance, impatient”, was I. Called a Dr, to get some help Wondered, “what is your problem?” Umm, “I never know what peace is.” Fatigue, swelling, loss of memory Feeling low and much more, all I get. Achievement of life Umm, gaining 3 pounds of weight every month Blood work was out of range, Homeostasis was not on my side Felt of lost in transition, Between Heaven and Hell. “Dr., am I going to die?” Tempting to release the constant fear Stupid arguments that haunt every time. “Calm down, it’s not too late”, “Don’t escape from the realms of reality”, “Let the awareness spread”, “Fight, support and advocate”, “Seek a path of peaceful harmony”, “Let’s make 25th May, bigger”, He said.
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When my ear first orbited your throat to listen for a roaming balloon of nestled flesh I heard trailer home hollowness in copper vein pipes. You draped a scarf over your superglued neck, telling me it was normal to fistfight death at 35. On Dad’s desk, your weight breathed feebly inside a sandwich bag. At night its nuclear green cast Orions across our ceiling. I never knew what real stars looked like, while you had completely forgotten. Years later, in the dark of our 17-acre home, you handed me your thyroid in its bag swimming in opalescent fluid and you looked at Polaris for the first time, as that same glow painted the Big Dipper on neighboring snowbanks. I dropped the bag on the dry rot porch. We heard your cancer flatten to a deflated bicycle tire, sweating from death, watched through squinted eyes as its glow turned from hazardous neon to cinder. It dried in the moonlight, a forgotten, frostbitten raisin, and our eyes readjusted to the perpetuating darkness. I saw it then like a long constellation line connecting star to forehead. It had been a lie before, but the North Star is truly the brightest in the sky. We looked through its surface underneath the star’s skin to its heart space, and we realized that Polaris can only be seen when thin plastic holds inside damaged shadows of family dinners bathed in deionized salt, where I ponderously stared at the **** in your esophagus, drawn with knife like ruby crayon into office paper.
0
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
elizabeth-o
Polaris in a Plastic Bag
When my ear first orbited your throat to listen for a roaming balloon of nestled flesh I heard trailer home hollowness in copper vein pipes. You draped a scarf over your superglued neck, telling me it was normal to fistfight death at 35. On Dad’s desk, your weight breathed feebly inside a sandwich bag. At night its nuclear green cast Orions across our ceiling. I never knew what real stars looked like, while you had completely forgotten. Years later, in the dark of our 17-acre home, you handed me your thyroid in its bag swimming in opalescent fluid and you looked at Polaris for the first time, as that same glow painted the Big Dipper on neighboring snowbanks. I dropped the bag on the dry rot porch. We heard your cancer flatten to a deflated bicycle tire, sweating from death, watched through squinted eyes as its glow turned from hazardous neon to cinder. It dried in the moonlight, a forgotten, frostbitten raisin, and our eyes readjusted to the perpetuating darkness. I saw it then like a long constellation line connecting star to forehead. It had been a lie before, but the North Star is truly the brightest in the sky. We looked through its surface underneath the star’s skin to its heart space, and we realized that Polaris can only be seen when thin plastic holds inside damaged shadows of family dinners bathed in deionized salt, where I ponderously stared at the **** in your esophagus, drawn with knife like ruby crayon into office paper.
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