Miracles and Cesspools

“Borderlines forget the existence of gray. Life is a beautiful miracle, or a cesspool of despair.” ~ Borderline, by Mishell Baker

The sun on your face is heart-feeding music to my eyes. I kiss your eyelids once, thrice… move back to my side of our bed and watch you watch me, remembering how your touch, the taste of you… fills my bones with fire and might. A smile awakens your lips, and you say, “I love you.”

Liar, liar, liar, I think. I want to rip out my eyes, leave my Self dark. Eyeless, I won’t have to watch me in your mirrors, see a pitiful thing that’s not worth loving. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.

stop it, you breather
of rot that chills brain and bone,
I loathe you; trust me
I am made of wild mushrooms,
high… bright, a lover of rot

(not so) wee notes…
Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is a serious (and complex) mental illness that steals emotional control. I have two friends who live with it. They are like night and day when it comes to their personalities… But their behavior (when stuck at either extreme of the disease) is very, very similar—self-destructive and malicious… or, all-giving and determined. Neither behavior lasts very long. And the in-between periods are filled with guilt and self-loathing. Many say that it is very hard to love someone who has been diagnosed with BPD. That hasn’t been true for me for quite some time. Listening to my friends, and spending a lot of time with one of them, I’ve realized that their emotional explosions are rarely personal. They can’t help how BPD attacks their bodies and minds. But we (their family, friends… society) can control how we react to their suffering. Remembering this bit—during the highs and the crashes—is the best way to truly show our friendship and our love for them. At least, that is what I think.

– On the technical side… I am really enjoying my exploration of books, prompts, and random bits of life through tanka-prose. I love the simplicity of the form… and the punch it can pack.

– Partly inspired by the quote at the beginning of the post. Linked to my Diversity Reading List for 2017, and to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform).

detail from the cover of Borderline, by Mishell Baker

Don’t Forget to Dance

“DO YOU hear voices?” he said. I was going to say something like, doesn’t everyone? Or, sure, but my inner-earmuffs are off today. Yesterday was tough. Then he said, “Write… about the voices you hear or the ones you used to; the voices which call or enthrall; the voices which yearn and those which burn.” I was tired, so I shook my head. But… somewhere, between my heart and the places where the dead we love live on, my little brother spoke. And I wrote…

“Don’t Forget to Dance”

his heart speaks loudest
when the crocus sleeps in ice.
don’t forget to dance
with me… for me, brujita
my heart will sing through your feet

the wee notes…
– As the anniversary of my little brother’s death approaches, the voice of his memory in my heart gets louder and louder and louder…
Brujita means little witch, in Spanish.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Sunday Mini-Prompt with Brendan: Voices) and to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 337).

“Dance of Joy”

Truth Turns Revenant

Stacie, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asked us to write a poem based on a specific metaphor. I remembered a throne-like golden chair I saw in the news the other night, and I thought about how the hideously ostentatious image still made my eyes want to wretch. I focused on that particular bit. And, to celebrate the birthday of our dark, wild and slightly mad Edgar Allan Poe (Jan. 19, 1808 – Oct. 7, 1849), I took the feeling and Poe-tized it bloody.

“Truth Turns Revenant”

Smoke, blood and ashes
in his soul, out of his mouth
poison shines like gold.

When the truth turns revenant,
many hearts invite death’s teeth;
but some claw (and survive)
digging rot out of eyeballs,
seeing the poison in his shine.

See the poison in his shine.

Linked to Prompt Nights (On Popular Demand – Glimpse into the world of Edgar Allan Poe).

“Silent Heart”, by Billi Capman
(I chose this image, which doesn’t have all that much to do with the poem, because as the artist suggests, it shows “a hint of Edgar Allan Poe”, and today is all about the Poe-man).