Don’t cry… I am just here
living next to you
in the sky

Let me go now and guard
my soul
to the graveyard

Hold it close to your heart,
be safe
and carry me to my grave

I wrote to you in broad bold letters.
I wrote it on a tree.

You know the one, remember
—it called to us from the middle of the garden.

Sassafras: our secret token.

Winter's stillbirth is soon upon us,
and our placement in the sun in peril.

But I have whispered it all to stones
now ****** into the sea.

Remember the tree, and pray I live long enough to dream in its hollow.

One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).

My therapist recently asked me "have you ever tried mindfulness?"
I laughed a bit, remembering of the week-long mindfulness camp (sugarcoated for in-patient psychiatric care) I attended for troubled teens. I went to this twice.
This peaceful brain training was designed to give us a retreat when the world is too loud. During group therapy, most teens shared their experiences with domestic violence, yelling, S.A., running away, abuse. Endless. We were all numb, but there was so much comfort in being locked away with others who needed the respite as much as I did.
We would eat skittles and describe their flavor and textures. We would focus on our breaths. Make beaded art. Tell collaborative stories. Follow guided meditations laying on unfamiliar gym floors, giggling a bit as we "soared through clouds".
I jumped back into the talk session, remembering my dedication to mindfulness years ago. My anxiety followed me into adulthood. I think mindfulness can be out of reach, stupid.
And yet, I looked out of her dusty, sun filled window decorated with three vases of dry arrangements. My mind started to posture into how warm and antique this image felt. I felt hot, quiet tears building up from feeling that peace again.

I keep hearing that
in order to exist properly
amongst your peers
you need a strong sense of self.
I think that
the stains on my shirt
melancholic playlist in my ears
grumbling tummy
and agitation with self help websites
might be as good as it gets for my early 20's.

and I'm tired of trying to be perfectly healthy all the time.
and I think capacity for constant self awareness is a privilege.