Poetry Corner

Another Ghost in me
crying out his silent plea

Even when the meds are working
the ghosts are quietly lurking

I find myself standing on the silent sea
the boat rocking, jerking

These ghosts can swim
And their cries are the wind in the dim

My face to the moon
It’s these thoughts I attempt to prune

Slowly turning the howls to a hymn
The ghosts will listen to my tune.

I will dance with the waves,
inviting the ghosts from their graves

There is no need to keep the ghost out of sight
Perhaps that is why it never felt quite right

I will return to the caves
The ghost and I feel no fright

In hushed tones
Gravely voices
We whisper secrets
Existing is hard
Keeping our organs in place
Staying tethered to earth
You stroke my curls
I am sent into a different bed

The room grows dim
Pizza boxes litter the floor
“We will turn out ok”
But I wait for a crash in the bathroom
“Whether we like it or not”
My heart skipping when the water doesn’t change rhythm for too long

I offer to drive
Rejection in the form of worry
I offer to stay
We fend off each others nightmares
Stabbing swords into each others thoughts
Clenching death midnight palms
Whispering never ending psalms

Honey lemon petals
Resting on my tongue
Thin slice separating lungs from air
Screaming, drowning, perfumed
A Bitter bite
And a breath in

The first layer of me
Wants to be loved
And Wants to be roughed up by it.
I want someone to see my from across the room and light up
To be pushed against the wall
Soft lips
Gentle curve of neck
It hurts to breathe
And I want my loss of breath to be from kissing someone so passionately
To come up for breath
An inch away

Another layer knows
That this grief isn’t passing
This hollow ache in my lungs
Isn’t from breathing in someone else’s breath
These cold fingers in my throat
Need to be warmed before I
Move on?
I don’t know the next step
I don’t know how to get warm
I need to be warmed again
To love
To feel things other then hollow

The outer layer
Is scarred
And scared
But mostly smiles.

Our layers could be fingers intertwined
Or butter in the pastry dough
Arms in a friendly embrace
Sweet.
My layers feel thin
My layers feel impossible to break
spiderwebs, sticking to the corners of my mind

I miss my home
I miss my friends
I miss my independence
And I miss myself
I’m lost in the layers

I sit once again, surrounded by blankets
The warmth never reaches my bones.
There are thoughts swirling around,
Like a marble on a circular track.
Lights in my room are cold,
They are meant to illuminate my readings for this evening,
But it seems more like they are a spotlight on a penciled skull.
My own speakers thump with familiar music
And familiar giggles come from the other side of my wall.
I am feverish again,
But that doesn’t stop me from drinking my discount svedka.
I only manage sleep in three hour intervals,
And I long for my familiar streets to roam.
I used to be be free
I would look up and see the aurora
Look down and see the sea, frozen and splashing.
Now I look up and see the trees,
Who I missed,
But I look down and see the angry scars.
I tried so hard to run away.
Someday the marble will drop out of the spiral.

This feeling of longing won’t go away
I can ignore all the impulses, but at the end of the day
My lungs will not fill themselves.
I wait for your messages,
But am scared to open them.
We are not ok, a two legged creature hobbling along.
We scream and shout, but no one seems to hear
I hear you, we try to say, but we are so out of breath,
We have to save breathe for ourselves before applying pressure to your wounds.
The world keeps spinning,
and I am spinning too.
We are spinning past our breaking points,
but the world keeps spinning.
The bubbles of breath we spare are popped at the surface,
pressure,
remember to refill your lungs.
Pouring water behind my eyes,
hoping it will make it easier,
clearing the passages,
but there was nothing blocking.
No one to blame,
just breath,
no rest.

I do so many things to feel well,
But the joy never sticks.
A brief encounter with happiness does not fulfil me in the way I believe it should.

I see my peers content,
Not needing endless stopgaps and limits.
They are always impressed when I count my pills in front of them at the sleepover.

Rubbing lotion on my drying scars,
But I know they will stay visible.
I miss the blood even though in the end it was just red and not a magnificent scarlet to adore.

The night finally closes around me,
Balance striking twice a year.
Surely there is more to every day life than working, and trying to stay afloat.

My needlepoint pricks my skin,
Sewing eyes into the back of my shirt.
I, too, was a blank canvas, but am full of holes and scars that show that I have loved and lived.

The minutes tick by,
And I write on my phone.
I can’t stand the thought of starting this battle again tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow.

Earth always spins,
And sashays around the sun.
If life’s big rock does the same with every passing moment, who am I to complain?

In the face of the universe,
Or at least tomorrow’s sunrise,
I weep for my responsibility and my passions that have become so muddled and draining.

I spend hours wondering,
Watching the minutes tick by.
This can’t be it- an endless waiting for something and anything to happen.

I need the stimulation,
But I resent the devices.
What I would give to wake up with a purpose and a will, and why can’t I turn this ship around?

It takes a lot to remind me of Shakespeare,
But here we are, living it again:
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Cookies baking in the oven,
The taste of vanilla extract straight from the bottle.
A tarot reading spread on the table,
The promise that this is a complete and lovely world.
Clothes spinning in the washer,
More piled on my chair that I tell myself to clean every day.
My stomach filled with food,
Bile pushing on the back of my throat: sick of the churning.
Calling out of work,
All my coworkers fired: their places listed online.
Toes curling beneath the sheets,
Sobbing as flashbacks hit with no place to hide.
I’m on thin ice, mental stability, cookies with no egg.
Posters falling from my walls
Humidity dripping from the window
Plants wilting and withering on my sill
I crave, I crawl, I spit and snarl
Searching for my one more crumb

This is what it feels like when I stare into space,
I think about walking into the pond,
Just to feel the water sloshing in my 800kr boots.
Black boots, black socks, black jeans, clear water.
I’m bored to death,
Meaning, there’s something under the surface.
A small gap in stimulation:
“God, I want to die.” And then the next episode starts.
Then the customer walks through the door.
Then I mix the cookie dough too much, the air in the dough rising and falling flat like my lungs.

I’m bored to death, I can feel the anxiety rising.
I desperately suck in air,
Fill my lungs and throat to the point of hurting,
Hold,
Hol d,
Ho l d,
H o l d,
And the rush of relaxing muscles.
Choking on air to mask the thrumming heart,
3 more pills than prescribed should ease the aching behind my collarbones.

The invisible rope around my neck
Cinching smaller with every breath
The full ache of being alive
Light thrumming while holding my breath
Ink wiped away with a damp cloth
A price tag on my physical body
To accompany the pain of knowing I’m really here
Unlike my unseeable stripes
You will see my patience written in my skin