Ink to Ashes

When my ink burns
hottest, thoughts of us scream
old wants out of my pen,

and

the me who loved you starts to ache
for the fiery words we howled together.
But I know you are a scorched page,

I know

happiness turns to ashes
when self-love is slaughtered
so that lust can feed.

I know

your blood has gone cold
and your lips sing poison.

 

for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Drowning the Life-Sucking Bastard (for a Moment)

Meeting new pain management physicians is always… a sort of interesting, unease-fueled experience. You just don’t know what kind of person you’re going to get. And when it comes to the doctor who is supposed to help you deal with the not-cool-at-all monster that eternally threatens to shatter your bones (and sanity), the personality attached to the medical wisdom matters.

I think I got lucky… again. The doctor I’ve seen for the last few years was excellent, so I was anxious about someone new. My apprehension was put at ease, when after discussing all the physical and administrative aspects of my treatment, the new doctor asked, “Why do you think that writing helps you manage pain?” I began to snarl—anyone who tries to get between me and writing will end up seeing the sharper side of my teeth—but the doctor raised a hand, smiled, and said, “Don’t kill me yet. I just want to know.”

My explanation was quite extensive, it went on and on and on and on… but it can be summarized like this: “I’m not mad enough, in that sense, to think that writing can rid me of pain. But it can certainly distract me enough not to spend my days screaming while agony steals my life away.” Also, words make the coolest of weapons, so it’s a win-win situation—my doctor agrees.

I know ink
can’t kill pain, but
heart-fed torrents of words will
drown the life-sucking bastard
for a sweet, sweet moment.

So… what’s your weapon of choice, when trying to drown what ails you?