Untreatably me

I’ve hit a place where everything dies.

Or maybe I’m simply dying for a hand,
holding mine
like it’s really there…

and walking me free

just like
someone real I used to be

but never quite got the hang of.

But what I don’t want…

What I don’t want is your help.

I don’t want any more of your tests
and your sad,
scary waiting rooms

and your scanning, seeing, sorting machines,

running on clockwork
and fairy tales.

I don’t want a thousand ways to label me away.

I don’t want a number or a code
or a class
to teach me out of darkness.

I wither in your heartless light

and on your silly bloody charts.

I don’t want your pills
or your sick notes
or your half-hearted dose of talk therapy
with a diagram thrown in.

I don’t want your cold,
soulless rooms
and your smug, dead eyes,
looking for clever,
funny ways
to be condescending
about all the things I’m doing wrong

and all the things I have to change
to be
what I never wanted to be

and what nobody who ever felt the truth of me

ever wanted to see.

I don’t want your words
or your answers
or your glowing testimonials
all the love that died on me
apparently shone on you.

I just want to get up
without this banshee dying in my soul
or these cataract windows
taunting the view from my heart
a million things to scare me
out of breathing…

I just want me back…

even now,
when all those poems
and stories
and stars
have died with the one set of eyes who knew…

and the one clear light that’s screaming too.

Published by Woodsy

I am so many little things, so many tiny words, woven here between those tales I think perhaps I need to tell... between those nightlights on the shore. I am a downpour, caught in myself... barely a heartbeat from running away.

12 thoughts on “Untreatably me

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