Murder in Stockholm

I dreamt his wickedness dead-

no one knew

until I solved the mystery

of where when how

and then the blank bodies

faces I can’t remember

if they had one at all

I ask them- Did he die?

they all say yes

as if they knew, as if I told them

December 2nd was the last day he was seen

now, everyone knows he’s dead

I searched for every moving photo of us

of him alive

I gathered them up, I pinned them

the dead man that took something from me

Save him

He took something

he’s not lost yet

precious- away from me

I woke and asked myself

of why of what

of any sign of meaning

I killed him. It was me.

All the memories

I attacked t(him) in Stockholm on December 2nd

he’s dead, they’re dead, he’s dead

and I can’t remember t(him) at all

Let me get you some water

Take it easy on yourself

Isn’t that what I’m here for, doc-

Can you show me what I don’t know?

what it means to not find fault in perfection

like my mother-about my body

the way I chew

I’m grown now and I keep my distance

throwing medals backwards

They don’t belong to me

I keep a distance between

people I need to dress in smiles

I need a place to rest but

I never could get my muscles not to twitch

I only knew how to pick up the pace

Sprinting hard- I want the distance grand

because even if you could catch up-

you’d have to pass all my trophies

Only then you’d catch me and

you could be proud, but not me

One day I found where I dropped my baton

found purpose by mistake

I picked it up, I started to run home

with an urgency of something

I needed to survive.

I got there and fell to my knees.

The little girl stared back at me

Eyes locked, I asked for what we needed-

Can I give you a hug?

Mislabeled Clown Makeup

Boxed up my trauma, needed to contain it

Placed it in storage in the back of my head

My access is blocked

but it works as a liquid- dull

suffer leaking like a virus

Too small to see, just not to feel

the cloud consuming my chest

But it had to come from somewhere,

didn’t it?

I don’t know what to do.

If I surrender to the pain

will I be glued to the floor?

How long before the tackiness dries?

Could I break from paralysis

while I wade through the concrete-

to reach the storage-

the box marked: Do Not Open-

but the container, where it lives-

it must know it’s here, so I ask…

What’s inside the box?

You said you were worried & I held onto it like a treasure

I was not invisible

You could see me

in the wading crowd

not another faceless mask

,floating into a train,

but it was my face

You saw it

burnt, bent

The way it had frozen

,stuck in place,

You also saw my tethers

bounded, chained

No one else saw

what I carried

,down the same track,

but it was my heart

You felt it

burnt, bent

The way it had frozen in place

,and still never given up,

Windshield

caved in, like glass

cracks still hold, if tension does not

let go-

the pain; be the shield, even though

I’m made of glass?

stay safe, stay numb

stay tethered and tense

don’t break- you’ll shatter

build a new? salvage shards

distort the view

ahead, if we’re clear

you can see

I didn’t break from you,

I broke for me.

Declaration to Self

To my true self,

I am sorry I abandoned you to become a version of myself more easily digestible to people I wanted to like me. I am sorry I got lost in the tangle of trying to understand what the world wanted from me, rather than asking you what you need. I got so far away from you; my breaking point didn’t come until I felt identity paralysis. You gave me signs all along, but red flags feel like butterflies when that’s what you hope is there.

Now that I am on the other side and I am closer to you than I’ve ever been. I just want to say, I plan to spend the rest of my life

Becoming

One with you.

Obedience sold at market price*

She’ll be

lovely and quiet

pink and delicate

like an oyster

drooling on the floor

lipstick in place.

Insert through eye

and strike the chisel

A mere tap

with the hammer

and she’ll petrify

to breath-taking stone

and you’ll restore

peace at home.

Never mind the detachment,

you like your coffee

poured from an empty pot anyway.

  • Not so fun fact: When lobotomy was a legal practice, 84% of the people that received it were women.