by Kate Ardenphrases that are code for “I’m dissociating!”
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by Lydia WeinbergerSometimes, my limbs do not belong to me, I look at them and see high-definition images, The type that move a TV show from reality to uncanny valley, The way my nerve-endings are firing, mismatched, The uncanny. The way my pupils shave down to rods and cones That do not follow the movements of my dismemberment, The valley, The dip in my ability to perceive myself in the world as an active party, As though I was an actual person. I am told this is dissociation, Or, an umbrella, conveniently placed in my hand, Or like the umbrella I have no memory of Appearing in my room on a rainy day; I swear I didn’t steal it, Or, my boyfriend amends, I don’t remember stealing it. Gaps in time were wider before medication, Felt like no weekend, or a lost night, A gained dream, Where I could have touched the sky if I could only reach higher; Once, on a walk, somewhere in my blurred space The sky seemed so close I thought everyone was dead, Or that I had died; The bee club loses a hive and the worker-bees pulsate on the ground Where the queen has landed, tasting the mulch, crawling across furry bodies, Wings, tired and used, And for hours after I could only see bees, no people, just bees, Crawling across fleshy bodies and it was the most suicidal I had been in years, Flung so far from the desperation of this world, I could no longer see the point in being a part of it. Once, I met G-d, and He brought me the sky to show me heaven, And took it away to show me hell; He told me “Love does not mean Running away.” My mind runs away from this body and this world at lightning speed “Love does not mean running away” I forget myself in the rush, do not know when I started to hate myself, Draw black crosses to remind me to love myself, Stop running away, Lydia, dammit! Fuck, fuck. The bees taste the mulch, And I know I do not own this body, Or else I would have destroyed it long ago I do not remember writing this poem, Just it's hollow Drip. |
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