Poetry

Grooming was once a ritual, each time the same.

Transient discomfort of uncertain origin Activating ancient internal reactions

I don’t get the blues, I get the greys.

My counselor asks; my reply pours out of my chest, along with a waterfall of tears, in a very cartoonish stream.

Straight for the jugular say it straight to my face

An associate directs me to Virginia Woolf’s essay. It is an act of kindness, I suppose, but the solace I seek is not there.

Finding the edges of functionality when sick is not contagious

The objects of my life are laid bare Outdoors, on a small blue table

Braille raised on banisters like gnarled tree trunks canes tapping sounds like nightmare-fueled insects

If only they searched for her.