Blast from the past-raw & unfinished

o not need to catch my breath anymore. Define it dream it but so soon i
forget it and leave it. This morning i forgot to pray and carelessly left my
shoes on while entering the house. Threw myself on this artificial couch and
stared at my laces which yearned to be double knotted. Waiting/wishing for a
cough to rise and explode through my lungs. I plotted and diagrammed my
escape fingering the seams that ran the length of my soiled limbs. The ideas
disintegrated between the tips of my hands and i was lead defeated into a
tapestry of conversation. Can’t say i prefer it this way but it seems that i
have tumbled onto my own foreign doorstep. Scraping away the mold on my mind
which has rooted its self too tightly. All this chatter becomes a layer of
discontent, rearranging myself between the flat screen computer and wasteful
amounts of food. If i was rich i would tear it all up just to feel how
worthless it will become. embarrassed to admit that i am embarrassed of my
surrounding. once i tried to kick my shoes off at the door but i felt the
house slither into my veins and run to my spine. i slid to the tile but the
cold crept to my throat and i blank stared the refrigerator for fifteen
minutes. it all felt ugly and square and bleak like rained in fog. now i
never forget the double knot so i will be ready to run.

my purse smells like stale weed
every time I dig for change
the past has been consumed into the inner threads
it just won’t go away

“I just tapped my foot along and closed my eyes
to make believe I still belonged in the moment”

this hurt is sticky
I don’t know what to say, to write, to think…I want to take comfort in silence that hasn’t yet existed. I’m searching for a reason to cry, but self pity doesn’t look too pretty today. Maybe I’ll try something else on. Maybe a nice purple shade of regret.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate. I can admit it though with lowered eyes. The sort of thing you tell yourself while taking a shower, only you’re whispering so the sound of the water hitting the tub drowns everything out.

This house with old forgotten things. Reminiscent of distance memories, like cobwebs in my mind. Faded, scared, insignificant, capturing an image displaced so far that i strain to feel it again. Disconnected from this space and the objects that fill it. Home consists of a connection of relationships. Underneath every off hand comment, every small gesture, every raised voice, is a foundation I’ve never been able to see. Love, there is love, safe and secure never to deteriorate, never to be forgotten-like these things.  We fit together in oddity, in difference, there is a familiarity. With different perspective of a similar start, how can any one understand me more? There is tranquility in the clockwork routine of patterns, repeated for years. Imprinted, inbeded, unphased, yet now attempting a new reaction after all these years. Love.

Writing prompt

What its like to be a military mental health technician:

I try to make each person I meet with feel comfortable. Slouching low in my chair with a casual tone, like two friends conversing, I put them at ease. I even put the pen down when emotion rises and let empathy flood into my eyes. Questions drum off my tongue with quick succession, “ How old were you when your mother left?”, “Have you ever been abused?”, “ Are you having any thoughts of suicide?”. The words flow, floating their way into the atmosphere to meet a patient‘s thinking pause. And no matter the content, no matter my heart wrenched surprise, no answer ever gets an eyebrow raise.

I walk the chow hall with a bucket full of others’ secrets. As I wait in line I watch Smith seated amongst chattering friends, absentmindedly stirring the mash potatoes on his plate. He relapsed last week, and I wonder if his lunching buddies have noticed his recent introversion. When it’s my turn in line, Davies, who’s going through a grueling divorce, serves me my order of pork chops dispassionately and forgets to offer an “Have a nice day” as I take the plate. Seems things have taken a turn for the worse, he’s been shuffling around like this: blood shot eyes, sagging expression, and wrinkled uniform for the last week. At least Callaway is doing well today. I spot her near by lightheartedly joking with her boyfriend. I had a feeling Lieutenant’s counseling style would work well with her, I‘m glad I put them together. The cashier rings up my meal and Callaway catches my prolonged glance and quickly averts her eyes.

I push through the 11 am lunch crowd, a field of camouflage, loud voices, and brief “hello/goodbyes“. I pass familiar face after familiar face which brightens in recognition. Yet, shortly brightness collapses to quiet shame, exposed, as their recognition leads to a memory connection. Their story falls off the book shelf of my mind, revealing sour tidbits. Raped when he was 10, diagnosed with bipolar disorder, on 24 hour watch. I can barely see their eyes looking at mine, just labels in Times New Roman font under SOAP note: Diagnoses: Axis I. II. III. I quickly look away, out of respect. Our exchanges are a silent unwanted acknowledgment, that holds too many seconds, and I breathe better as I exit. Yet as the distance between us grows, foot propelling foot, I am left rereading the opened story in my mind. I just don’t forget.