Tomorrow is Today; Today is Yesterday

Today is my past.
Tomorrow strains:
A backpack tugging down,
On tensed up shoulders.

She went with a knife,
Slicing out my tongue.

She adorned me with bells,
To sing when she made me shake.

Filling my hands with handles
Of her luggage–no peeking–
There was no new me.

With clamps, safety-pins,
Anything I could find,
I forced my backpack to stay.

There had to be a me somewhere.

Pulling out a little notebook,
Maybe with toes or teeth–
Forcing it onto anyone:
A whimper, a beg.

But, she marked it with red-pen:
Screaming for an apology
Of who I was.

‘I can gloat louder than you.
I had a past more painful than you.
I have more worth to friends than you.
So, let me gift you a friendship,
Because I don’t want to fail.’

Letting her voice be louder,
I dropped her luggage while she slept.

A bag only full of years long past,
I counted my pennies,
And built myself a home
With locked doors.

But, how to I build a new tongue,
and have feeling in calloused hands?

Today is my past.
Tomorrow strains:
A backpack tugging down,
On tensed up shoulders.

Her Pot of Tea

Bleached linen: she folds in violent order.
In a mumble, timid words spurt:
A comfort of natural beige.

Her voice oppresses other in spits.
Pristine. Turned straight. In place.

Conversation is argument:
What else is there?

All is done in marching steps,
With scented candles chosen
One of two, facing out.

Behind doors:
Bursts of nauseous tears,
Burning lines down her cheeks;
Legs uncontrolled collapse;
Sandpaper gulps of air.

She methodizes every action,
To prohibit reaction: self.

Filled to 99%, order is paramount,
to not spill her liquid out her lips.

When it boils, bits spatter
And raise as steam:
Undefined.

She will pour when ready,
When her tea is brewed.

Dissociation

Apathy.
Stuck: muscles burn,
Craving movement.

Blinks: sliding water
To inadequately lubricate
Human cameras.
In tempo
With passing seconds.

Vigorously lounging:
She is glue,
Not self.

Trauma.
Past.

She eats bite sized memories,
To stop looking at them.

Stale crackers.
Old clothes.
Her body stays still:
Mind elsewhere.

She waits for a kiss
From Prince Charming,
Her cat,
To pull her from dissociation.

A flick: her finger.
Revived.
Breath slides out,
And glides in,
And back.

Present.
Easing to seated.

“I exist”

Tears soak her cheeks,
Her muscles releasing tension
Through streams from her eyes.

“Feel, experience, process.”

The corners of her mouth float.

“I am sad.”
“Now I know why.”