i haven't seen you in a year.

it's a relief.

it should be a relief.

instead it's a dread.

i'm not stupid. i know

you'll be back.

sometimes when i lie awake

at night

i feel your approach

fading away just before

you arrive.

i breathe a sigh of relief

and fall asleep.

i push you from my mind

because i have to.

i cannot think about you.

don't think about it.

don't think about it.

don't talk about it.

don't write about it.

but here i am. writing it.

thinking it. maybe you

were right.

maybe i did want it.

maybe i even

needed it.

i haven't forgotten.

my days are spent

not with sighs of relief

or the cherishing of each night

that i go without—

but instead with the fear

of the night you'll return.

because i know you will.

maybe once upon a time,

i thought you went away,

but i've given up on

kidding myself.

you are, after all,

a part of me.

isn't that what

my first psychiatrist said?

you are the rot in my gut that i

try to starve out of me;

you are the intrusive thoughts

that make me believe i am a monster;

you are the distorted disgusting image

of my bare body that i spend my life

trying to cover up.

you are the hatred that i

cannot beat out of myself.

i'm always externalizing my flaws.

building people in my head to blame

when i fuck up.

you are the shame.

so many people told me

i had no reason to be broken.

so i invented you

to break me.

and it worked.

which is why i know you'll

be back.

because shame doesn't die.

it can't be killed.

it can only be stalled, delayed,

pushed away towards some

abstract future date

that i know is fast approaching.

you're coming.

i'd like to say i'm ready for it.

i'm prepared, or at least i'll

have time to prepare, to guard my throat

against the acid reflux, to

build up my mental defenses and stand up

to you again.

but i'm never prepared.

that's the funny thing about shame.

it creeps up. subtle.

you are the space in my brain that i define

by what's around it, the life, the love

that you displace. because i cannot

face it head on.

i have to stay on the outskirts,

fencing off the pitfalls

in my brain, tunnels in the amygdala,

rivers in the frontal lobe

that will lead me straight to you.

you're the part of me

that i cannot admit is mine.

and until i can,

we'll be stuck in this endless dance

of torment.

you: my flaws, my shame.

and me: forever looking for

excuses.

The moments lost, and passed

They won't return, they never come back

Love blooms like flowers, however

When Autumn wilts a flower

It won't bloom again

In Spring, sunshine, or rain

So, when you and I, and no longer us

What use is a million others?

Can't repent when the die is cast

They won't return, they never come back

Eyes can deceive us

How can we trust?

Doubt can break us apart

Never let it rule your heart

Ones you'll miss forever hence

Hold them ere they drift afar.

You can make excuses; apologize till it lasts

They won't return, they never come back

The moments lost, and passed

They won't return, they never come back

Mavia sent in number 56, which features two writers and her signature sound.

Stay awhile, have a drink...

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk0jDiU7WBw

And we'll link the authors below in the comments.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Blinded

amid all creation

{the nonstop}

Cyclopsed

with finger

stuck

Octopi

everywhere

even,

in the third eye

*

For all attention

of detail-ed minutiae

Two feet in front

of us, the fog

**

It's not that I want

to tell the Future

something

or grab

the illustrious

knees

of God

I just wish

to see the lights

and fireflies

Not streaming

tears,

exploding

in the yard

***

Stranger danger

fades somewhat

when one

canst

look a looker

in the eye,

but maybe

that is why

it is wisdom

in this blind

strength

and sweat

having

a hand in

kerchief tied

****

I wipe our glasses,

press my lids,

like Aldous Huxley

and sigh

something hiding in the rainclouds: light /

pockets inside out and i'm staring at ten fingers,

extended towards the ceiling

(they're yours)

and somehow we ended up with our legs intertwined

(you've been on my mind)

and i'm thinking about the way you planted kisses on my nose

(how did i end up here?)

when we stood at the window and watched the rain

i didn't know

the world's expanding; i think

i'm afraid of the snap back to order

but i like when you touch our fingertips together

and i like your hand on the small of my back

and i can't see at all but it's right, i think

there's so much more i need to say

but

words get in the way, right?

so i'll put them some place you'll never see them:

here

or the back of my mind, coloring book pages with scribbling words

and fairy hearts and stick-on stars

all to remember the way you look at me sometimes

im not sure what to write

i know what people like

but this week has felt as though

i might not survive

i left home

made people mad

but i feel hopeful

is that really bad

or should i feel terrible

like a dad whose gone to get ciggarettes?

i dont though

my love and well wishes go out to them

but all that theyve done to me

should i really pretend

that im not the slighest bit angry

that they didnt ask where i was last night

or should i accept that all we do is fight

and i could never be enough

so why should i try

when my opinion is the only one

that even matters in the meantime

no matter if you meant to hurt someone

it matters that their hurt

and ego is the evil

that continues to lerk

through you and her and him and her

once again it doesnt matter

if you meant for me to hurt

because i did

for too long

i dont owe you a thing

just leave me alone

please

just for the time being.

In the cluttered corners of my mind,

Where shadows dance, and thoughts unwind,

A symphony of whispers, dark and deep,

Intrusive thoughts, their secrets keep.

Unwelcome guests, they linger near,

The tempest of anxiety, sparking fear.

Like ghosts, they haunt, with mangled glee,

Intruding on my only sanctuary.

A canvas painted with the hues of doubt,

Intrusive thoughts, they twist and shout.

A storm within, a relentless tide,

They whisper, taunt, and try to hide.

I wrestle with these shadows cast,

In the theater of my mind, they're vast.

Unwelcome guests, they dance and play,

Distorting truths in the light of day.

But I'll rise above this tempest's roar,

Find the strength to close the door.

For in the heart of the darkest night,

I'll reclaim my thoughts, bring back the light.

Intrusive whispers, I'll defy,

With resilience and a steadfast eye.

A poem penned to set me free,

From the chains of intrusive thoughts, let me be.

Hold that though!

But how?

Thoughts are so fleeting.

They wander as I wonder,

Disconnectedly,

Without rhyme or reason that I can see.

They travel randomly as they please,

Coming and going

Without consulting me,

As if I don’t exist.

It’s freaky!

I’m being used by someone I can’t see.

Maybe the devil’s playing games with me,

Having fun at my expense,

Taking advantage of my pliable innocence.

Why are thoughts so hard to control?

They’re right here, in my head,

In my most prized real estate,

Doing as they please, as if I’m dead!

It didn't become a Russian roulette until later, when the witch doctors (psychiatrists) started prescribing me too much medication. In that future, where I am too anxious to leave my house lest I run into a neighbor and am forced to make small talk, I am on too much of a medication that I have been on for fifteen years. That number, folks - that's half my life.

I remember my first witch doctor. Here's the thing - these doctors don't know anything, really, about how the brain actually works, because everyone's brain pan is different. I remember reading once how the brain is like the deep ocean, in that scientists know little about it. There is so much left to be explored. But as if by decree, as if he were a judge on my particular, sixteen-year-old brain pan, he decided to clock out of work that day with the knowledge that he had prescribed me with an incredibly addictive drug. His witch ritual was complete.

How was a sixteen-year-old supposed to know that it would be incredibly addictive? Sixteen is, by legal definition, underage, youth, minor, not yet an adult who can make adult choices. I looked up to him. I looked up to him because I was taught that you look up to adults; they knew more than I did, so who was I to fault them?

But the thing is - because my brain pan would have been different than any other patient he'd ever had - he didn't know what he was doing. He was throwing out guesses. And yes, perhaps, they were "educated" guesses, but his certainty that it would "all work out" required an arrogance that only these witch doctors have.

I don't hold a lot of respect for this profession, clearly. I learned later, as a legal adult, that they are rather easy to manipulate. Just make sh*t up, and they'll prescribe what you want. And maybe then I am a part of this rather elaborate, problematic system of medicine. But remember - it is witch medicine.

These are my current thoughts, as I sit here, unable to hold a conversation with my neighbor. My brain pan is fried. I have taken so much anxiety medication in my short lifetime that I am more anxious than ever. The system failed me. They failed me.

Here's the short answer: don't answer to witches.

a daughter, confused and abandoned

i remember the first time that i asked my mom

why i didn’t have a dad like the other little girls around

me did, it was the first time she didn’t have an answer

for the hundreds of questions a five year old is

curious to know, it was the first time i saw anger burn

in her eyes. she once warned me about my first heartbreak

that it would come in my teenage years and that it

would hurt more than anything i have ever experienced.

i listened quietly, i had no strength to tell her that i had already

experienced my first heartbreak and that no matter how

much advice she could muster up, i would never understand

why the one man who was supposed to love and protect me

left without a care. it was then that i had the thought that

would haunt me for years to come, if my dad didn’t love me

enough to stay, who ever would? and then another, was there

something wrong with me? and another, what could i have done

to make him stay? i would later find out that i would ask these

same questions about the boys i would bring to bed.

a mother, angry and giving

she tried her best to give me double the love, to make up

for the other half that would not be given to me by him

and though i could never admit it to her, it was never enough

she knows this though, even if she doesn’t hear it from me

she has felt it on her own, abandoned like me. she hates him for making

me like her and she’s angry at herself because she feels that she is to blame

my mother has given, and loved, and kissed, and cared.

she is everything in the world to me

a brother, protective and loving

the one who will walk me down the aisle when my wedding comes

he will shed the tears that should have been my fathers when

he gives me away, he’ll make a speech about how it was

him who has protected me all of these years and now will give that

responsibility to someone else. i’ll cry along when he tells our friends

and family how much he loves and adores me, and we’ll laugh

when he mentions our favorite childhood memories

the one who gave me more protection, love, and attendance

than my father ever could

a father, careless and unpresent