near life

But,
you see,
I can’t look
at the thing
that gnaws and grunts
that floods my veins
and threatens
to embody me
fully.

I can’t look.
For if I do,
it will surely
devour me.

What if I peek?
Peer only from
willfully
obstructed views?
And feel only
with stunted senses?

What if I hide
and mask
and tell the story
of the thing
from this fractured
perspective?

It must give me
peace
why else
would I do
such a thing?

Yet, any peace
I once had
by hiding in the shadows,
now weighs on me
stinging and heavy,
like safety pins piercing my skin,
glued to meteorites
from distant galaxies.

Chiron whispers
my medicine
into the high pitch
heard in dead silence.

I struggle to hush
the ear-bleeding
“noise”
with distraction and
dissociation.

I need
respite
from the cyclic
stories of my
sacred wounds.

Wounds,
I begin
to question
as I heed
the songs
of ancestors
past
and beloveds
to come.

What happens
to me
if my story
changes?

And yet,
change
we must,
as living
beings.

For the rigid and static
shatter
while
the curious and adapting
flourish.

Blythe DoloresJuly 29, 2025Comment