itismeangied | (no subject)

How sick am I?

Obsessions, yes

Depression, sure

They nuzzle, stratified

Cenozoic remains

Decades familiar and well-worn

Like desert dirt in the wanderer's denim

Red stains where the hands ran down the thigh

To soothe the mind while the legs rested

I descended

in the psycharcheological dig

of my experience

And was left with not a puddle, but a lake...

a body of pain maybe ocean-broad,

I can't be certain yet.

I thought my parents nailed it

But my therapist confirmed

This was false.

But most parents failed.

they did the best they could with what they had.

In fact, it's nearly impossible for any of us to survive childhood

Without at least a minor trauma

and a major complex

Undiscovered needs passed over,

High expectations, unresolved pain, unspoken emotion, raised voices.

Even in utero

A mother's indecision or anxiety

Could be fetus-felt.

And I realize I've much work to do

Meet my shadow and craft a dance to wake the demons and invite them dinner, maybe more after.

And I'm healing from all the work I got done.

Cut into my back along the vagus nerve.

Is this a butterfly or angel wing?

A halo for a thought prostitute.

I grieve my perfect childhood

and my parents trauma

because they didn't have an easy time.

they did the best they could with what they had.

We have to speak and feel and express.

Instead of silence, distraction and pushing down.

They say "pain travels through families until someone is brave enough to feel it."

I guess I'm brave.

And, as always, I operate

Like a vitamin veil,

One shade under subtle.

Witness the honey