Blowing Out My Wishes

I wish I were crazy

Telling made-up lies

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

I wish I had imagined

every bruise and

raging fire

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

I wish I could tell you

I was all the things

Ever spread of me

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

I’m not

I’m human

Flesh and blood

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Cutting myself into

Jagged abstract shapes

Reformed, re-imagined

Infinitely in my attempts

To become acceptable

Shrank and c ru mb l ed

Faded

Every heart spark

B l o w n away

In the embittering wind

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Mirroring serenity

Never revealing

My sacred inner state

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With no rights to

My heart and mind

Privileged information

Exposed

At my discretion

My truth

Not my form

Finally on display

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Yet, what

Will you choose to

See and take away?

Merely an impression

Or will your soul

Be stained

By my ink splattering

Exit strategy

K.B. Silver

· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·· · ─ ·

Sometimes, I feel as if I've been grieving every day of my life. As a child, I didn’t know it, but I grieved for the childhood I wasn’t having. As a teen, I grieved for all the dreams that were dying as fast as I could conjure them. As a young adult, I grieved for my exhausted, disabled body and all the strength I used to have. Now I grieve for the person I never got to be, the life that was stolen from me.

Writing therapy gives those thoughts and feelings somewhere to go. I can trap them in the poetry instead of allowing them to continue eating away and clouding up the life I have left. The life I am building cannot be poisoned by what never was.