The Devil’s Artwork

I never expected to be chronically ill this early in life. I still have school age children, active in sports and many other things.

I have a vibrant marriage, filled love and friendship like no other. I want or need for nothing. Except good health. 

I’m in physical pain almost daily. The days I feel well are refreshing and freeing. They jump out at me and grab my attention like a fierce hug from a long lost friend, because they are so few and far between. 

I remind myself that I am not the only one in this world with pain, in pain. I’m in far less than many. More than others.

Comparing is a fool’s game, however.  I must give myself the dignity to validate my own experience regardless of its relevance to anyone else’s. I have to allow myself this selfishness. This self – love.  

Sometimes it turns into self pity and anger, and I want to pound my fist into the ground until my knuckles are dust mixed with blood and bone.

Or I want to slice my throat just to get the long, drawn out, inevitable process the fuck over with already!

But, I don’t, and I won’t.  It’s not for me to do to my family. To my children. To their minds.

I go to each doctor’s appointment, and I take their advice.  I do what I am told and I stay the same or get worse and then maybe better, and then back again. A pendulum that always comes to rest back at center.

Chronic illness is the devil’s artwork tattooed on my cells. My organs scream for the touch of God. Will I ever see His face?

Suicidal Migraine

A blade slices mine in two
for Hannibal Lecter’s meal.
Chew. Chew.”

Every molar sinking in,
masticating; nerve-ends serrating.
There’s nothing I can do,

but succumb to the sadist’s call or
I could just end it all:

dog pile mind-rapes;
personality mishapes.

You see,

to leave it all behind,
my dead body
they will find.

Choice is a Luxury

Seahorse memories
flood the ocean floor
on this, the day,
you died of depression.

Some say you
had a choice
like if you wanted
fries with that,
or not.

Choice is a luxury of the sane.

You no more chose this
than your blue eyes.

Nature is an ass-biting bitch,
and powerful,
especially over a mind
that has left;

a “not in their right mind”
kind of mind.

You didn’t do anything.
This happened to you,
but you know all of this already,
don’t you?

It’s in the How We Say Things

Teenage perception is looking through someone else’s glasses while driving

or getting dressed in front
of a fun house mirror
after riding the Tilt a Whirl
ten times in a row.

Screaming on a roller coaster is cool;
not so much at home
unless
you want to be the topic of therapy

while minions play space invaders inside your head and
needles show up in wierd places
like

under your finger nails and pinning
your eye lids open.

Eventually the pain subsides and
your able to grab a rope
and some friends

and go play double Dutch.

Unconditional

It’s the little things
like blanket creases
on your cheek
at the dinner table;

Clothes piled behind
the bathroom door,
washcloths on
the shower floor;

Drawn-in eyebrows,
dyed crimson hair;
black leggings and
plaid shirts you wear;

Fiery tongue or
laughing eyes.

I fiercely love
every
little
thing.

Addiction-less

You’re ripped from me
like nicotine after
ten missed cigarettes.

It’s better this way, in the long run;
the hammer will pound less,
the cock-fighting will cease.

But how will I find the sunset
on the horizon while I sip
my cocktail on the beach?

Mutability

It’s a screaming spiral decent
in black atmosphere
on a steel slide

Feeling each horizontal seam
scrape your side
the whole way down

After riding your Schwinn
in the sunshine
only yesterday.

Nought may endure.