Pen to Paper: 1.12.17

I am longing for

dark penumbra,

a space where speculation becomes

only the echo in the hollow spaces of my body.

My favorite parts of myself are the one comprised of negative space,

where my fingers fit in around my bones,

so I can feel the solid substance of myself,

can feel it disappearing.

That Saturday it came back again,

curled in my lap like a kitten, soft and grey.

I cleaned the blood with cotton pads,

round,

just slightly bigger than a communion wafer.

This is my body.

I stopped praying when I knew I was too ugly

for God to bless on a Sunday morning,

when I showed up to church each week with

red lines up and down my arms,

hidden under layers of warm clothes.

I stopped praying when I became a thing that was not worth saving.

When my confessions were so long

that the organ stopped and I among the rising congregation

could have stepped onto air,

my dizziness a palpable sensation,

its own presence in the room,

could have slipped translucent through the stained glass,

could have dissipated or

stretched just beyond the boundaries of myself.

In the evenings I fall to the bottom of the ocean in my bedroom,

stare up through the dark, glass water to the ceiling, far above.

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