Poetic Mental Healing | A Texture Of Life & Death | A Poem

I don’t think it’s emptiness.

It might be a room, a world, full of stuff.

Quivering, stuck, overboiling, overcooked,

Waiting for apertures, overtures, air, and you slither

Through the cracks, rolling around in dust,

Caught in spiderwebs, trembling, insufficiently,

Yawning, never abandoned, and we holler and scream

Against the walls that grow and tremor, against ourselves,

The skins lacking warmth, the haunting cold stiff skin,

The texture that has nothing to do with you,

The scent, the chemicals, the non-you, the having-become-you,

Outside of yourself and back in, into us, my nostrils,

My fingertips, speaking to me in voices not your own,

In gestures I’m looking for, in all of my days, yours within mine,

I wander and succumb, sitting sideways, off the edges,

Alongside my ribcage, I hear myself scream and disintegrate,

Vanish in the thickness of resurrected woods,

I regurgitate your name across tree trunks

And beg on all fours, listen to me, listen to you,

Everything that binds us, lingers and tightens,

I revive, I survive, your name on my tongue

As if nothing happened, as if every single little thing happened,

You, happened, you did happen, still, emptiness, fullness,


Photo by Victoria Borodinova on Pexels.com

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