Daylight arriving:
too much of a thing,
neither bad nor good,
that inserts its presence
without asking.
Dusk and dark:
blankets only,
fixes for nothing.
Day or night
the air smells like fear, like
blue lights
in my rear view.
I am broken,
I’ve been told.
I’ve been told
I’m in the process
of healing. Terrifying words,
broken, healing; broken
for how I’ve been
and how I am seen;
healing for its reminder that
I have not only not
been repaired fully,
but that I may never be.
What I do daily, nightly,
is pretend the healing is working.
I sit in the scent of fear
and bathe myself.
I call it a treatment.
I treat myself to
immersion in what you call
healing, which for me is
a rough massage
of broken parts
that is alleged to make me
better, but really
just moves fractures
into hiding under my skin.
The hurt never changes
and I can’t escape the smell.
I am more broken than
healing. This is my life.
I live it and have lived it
but I will not pretend
to have liked
much of it.
