It was nothing more than a wooden door bearing a silver handle and dark, swirling grain she had traced no less than a thousand times. She knew that even before her fingers touched the deathly cold of the handle, as if it had never held any magic at all.

Hand dropping limply by her side, she turned away from the silent accusations. His parting words rang in the echoes of her mind. It was impossible to open, to see nothing but coats and scarves, boots collecting cobwebs. The cold of the handle would be nothing compared to the lukewarm walls standing firm under her touch.

The magic remained in her memories, and she dared not tarnish them with the stark reality of the truth.

Where am I? For I do not feel my self here. That essential "I" has wandered while idly scrolling social media. I sought nothing engaging nor enlightening, and so off the self traversed to vibrant worlds.

Yet I could not recount the fantastic things I had imagined for it must be the same self stretched between the two tasks. Attention neither here nor there, and now there is nothing to be recalled of either. Do not linger in mental absence long where it is dull and too foggy to be assured of your own company.

Next time I shall accompany my self to the forrest and stars and a great many mysteries, for these are the tales I'd rather tell when once again we meet in the here and now.

When my soul is tired, I take to the woods.

I do not traipse through them like a lumbering chipmunk -

truly the most chattering children of the forest.

No.

I curl up with a tree, borrowing its sense of patience.

There I wait for the awakening found amongst leaves filtering warm light for life first waking.

Orange, yellow, and red gems flutter and fall.

And in the quiet, I wonder -

Does this exist if it is not observed?

I do not know.

I only know,

When my soul is tired, I take to the woods.

But I do not implore them with my opinions or my thoughts -

my sense of self discarded when my walk began.

Yes.

In silence and stillness, I rest and wonder.

There I observe the ballet of the leaves where they fall in grace and make music upon descent.

The soft pitter-patter loud on the crisp air.

And in the rustling, I wonder -

does the symphony of the forest exist when no one listens?

I do not know.

I only know,

When my soul is tired, I take to the woods.

For I cannot risk existing in a world where the leaves do not dance and play.

Because of them, I have lived many more days.

#autumn #leaves #nature #mentalhealth

Wring your fingers, bend them back.

Hear them pop, nerves under attack.

Rub them raw, send skin burning.

Obsessively fixate, wringing and yearning.

Fight the urge, running up the arms.

Steady friction, raise no alarms.

Find your breath, exhaustion sets in.

Frustration and anger, you let anxiety win.

You're not listening again.

I'm trying not to shout.

Catch more flies with honey than vinegar, right?

But I don't want to catch flies. I want you to move.

A list, easy reminders of tasks for the day.

You're not listening again.

I'm trying to be gentle.

The tremors in your hands, the soft focus of your eyes.

The energy you have dwarfed by what you need to do.

Faith placed in you alone crashed and stranded us here.

You're not listening again.

I lose my patience.

You retreat from my silent shouting, my internal tantrum.

Joints cracking and popping. I know everything hurts.

It's hard, but you have to move. It'll help the pain.

You're not listening again.

I need you to trust me. Believe in us together.

Disjointed, alone, we'll succumb to nothingness.

A bag of flesh, you need me; and I need you.

Are you listening?

Say it one more time.

You laugh in your half-sleep and mumble that you love me.

I nuzzle your neck with little kisses, telling you I lovelovelovelovelove you.

I kiss you and tell you to go back to sleep, holding on to the color of your eyes as they close.

Say it one more time.

Because I do love you.

More than all the years we'll never get,

more than the kids I didn't give you,

more than your face at my bedside telling me you're fighting with me.

Say it one more time.

Because we had so much love.

Love the memory of us in the park,

love us ordering too much popcorn at the theater,

love us for what we had and not what's lost.

The gun is a feather in hand compared to the boulder of sickness sitting on my chest.

Because I love you.

Say it one more time.

#love

#loss

#grief

#illness

Dear faded, black sock in the grass,

Thrice I walked by you.

Thrice I mistook you for a fallen crow.

This confusion grates me excessively.

My creatively addled mind would like to tell you:

Stop being a fucking sock.

You came into my life, Wendy,

And then left as fleeting as a rainbow;

but not before you made me see.

There was this gaping hole growing

with time that passed as a broken clock.

The mind counts the days, weeks, months, and years;

and the body stays as stone.

It was time to live again.

Tinkerbell led the way back.

I'll admit I had hoped you were waiting for me.

Beautiful blue eyes shining with hope and wonder.

A new adventure we would share together.

To feel your touch every night,

to tuck children into bed,

to scare away their nightmares,

to love so deeply until it aches –

that would be an awfully big adventure.

But you had moved on.

The old house stood as still as Neverland time.

I took it for abandoned, yet I stayed.

Days, weeks, months, and years passed.

The body now counts with the mind;

and though a thief may eat, the heart still wanes.

Your gaze would never hold mine again.

I let you go...again.

A speck of pixie dust gave me wavering flight,

but aged eyes could not dicern the guiding star.

When you left, and I knew it was for good,

That gaping hole swallowed me.

Now I’m lost forever, and forever is an awfully long time.

You see that little girl?

Assume she's getting fucked.

Always assume she's getting fucked,

If for nothing more than there is a hole in her.

Is she supposed to fill it?

No one told her about filling holes,

Only that she has one and there is a right it should be filled.

No one told her, taught her how.

Others will do, and she'll let them,

Still never understanding.

She'll suffer and the doctor will call it woman's pains.

Because if there were understanding to be had at all it would have to be man's pains.

Said jokingly and yet,

Deep and visceral is the wondering.

Because she aches and takes it in stride.

There are chores, and children, and husband,

And a love that should not come last.

Because while woman's pains are harsh,

And yes, her lower back aches in a way he doesn't really know,

His back hurts too.

His back hurts and he takes it in stride.

There is work, and children, and wife,

And a love that should not come last.

You see that little girl?

Assume she's getting fucked.

But.

You see that little boy?

Assume he's getting beat.

Always assume he is getting beat.

Always assume she is getting fucked.

Yes. Sometimes he is fucked and she is beat.

Tables turn. All backs hurt.

The world needs to breathe and give in that we are one in the same,

If only with individual burdens.

The load is still heavy, the aches still real all around.

I cannot help that I ache more for the little girl.

An ache deep not in my bones,

Because bones can break, and set, and mend.

Deep in my womb, the universal ache,

The hole that cannot be held closed.

It stretches, and mends, and keeps it's secrets.

So can it be hurt?

The world would ask.

It does not break.

It must be filled,

A duty only being done.

And though it'll leave no scar,

Though it'll mend,

My womb aches for her.

Is she hurt? Little girl?

I don't know.

I can only assume she's getting fucked.

In a pool of cascading light from a setting sun,

under the yellowing lace blanket of leaves,

shadows whisper with shifting light.

Silken webs amongst fallen leaves glimmer,

birds timidly twitter under the rising cacophony of crows heralding their season.

The light becomes velvet, a suddenly tangible intangible thing.

Sour lemons have given way to gooey, melted marshmallows and chocolate.

Sweaty hugs given over to faded flannel and crushed velvet kisses.

A lone guitar sings amongst a very un-lonely group of friends,

chords that bid farewell to receding sunlight and beckon crackling flames.

Stay.

Hold the season where new and nostalgia collide.

Be the memories.