Maybe I’m just ungrateful, but breathing on the other side of death has made me doubt myself and un-trust this concept of reality and existence — entirely.
The tide conductress and sun star know all my secrets and every part of the monologue I rehearsed behind closed doors. They greet me now like I’m a recovering addict and tip toe around my sensitive triggers and the elephant in the room that is… me.
I know it all really happened because my body tells littered stories that I can’t conceal or dispose of. My skin has claw marks of milkeyway born canines that also bark yellow bruises of dying planets across my chest. I know it was real although memories are like fine abyss dust that hasn’t quite settled yet… scattered, fragile, beautiful?
The words I wrote during death remind me, but I can’t pronounce them with conviction and certainty anymore.
Maybe I’m just unappreciative of my brave battle scars. But WAS I brave? How am I the hero for wanting to meet death? Now, as a ‘survivor’, all I see are the tread marks of my friend’s endurance race that She defiantly won first place for. I came second, because I’m still here… but I’m not the same.
Madness also doesn’t just disappear once you’ve made it through the night. I have learned now that there is a second phase of insanity that persists once the sun star doesn’t hurt so much anymore. This type of madness comes, for me, from wondering about things like how will I ever wear pink again? How will I ever meet a kin in love and open my body — this same body that has been stuffed with suffering like a hollow carcass for others to feast at on Sundays — a centrepiece of hero’d decay.
Will I be able once more to open my heart when I only just got it back in pieces that don’t fit the way they used to. How will I ever sing again like I have nothing to loose? I don’t know, and maybe I am just ungrateful, but I am mad nonetheless.
I know it really happened because the rope I was thrown remains just just out of my both hands’ reach. When the tides let me, I can hang on with one arm, but I’m still suffering just to be half saved.
Surviving death comes with a price and I’m paying in concepts surrendered to the moon. Taken by the eternal nights I’ve lived through, She comes to collect her rent in my dreams. Exhaustion — but different. I am here, but I am not the same. Did it all really happen?
I know it was real, I know I should be grateful, but death has stuck around, I am alive — not living. Following the footsteps of my former self like a ghosted autopilot with a prescribed destination but no attachment or presence in the journey.
Was it real?
I should be grateful.
I know I should be.
Code Pink?
