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Literature Text
I'm not in my body today
but floating on the ceiling
watching as I go about my
daily routine, knowing
I'm real but feeling
maybe I'm not-
maybe all this familiarity
is an illusion
and at any moment
I'll wake up to find myself
plugged into the Matrix
or skipping down the yellow brick road
in the Wonderful World of Oz,
a heroine destined for great things-
destined to find her way back home.
Maybe it's not the world
that's the illusion but me-
maybe this body I have,
brown stringy hair, blue eyes, bitten fingernails,
this awkward body
that fidgets and isn't proportioned right
is a prison
and I'm really a soul
meant to swirl
free.
but floating on the ceiling
watching as I go about my
daily routine, knowing
I'm real but feeling
maybe I'm not-
maybe all this familiarity
is an illusion
and at any moment
I'll wake up to find myself
plugged into the Matrix
or skipping down the yellow brick road
in the Wonderful World of Oz,
a heroine destined for great things-
destined to find her way back home.
Maybe it's not the world
that's the illusion but me-
maybe this body I have,
brown stringy hair, blue eyes, bitten fingernails,
this awkward body
that fidgets and isn't proportioned right
is a prison
and I'm really a soul
meant to swirl
free.
Literature
Forgive This
We were never
two conjoined souls.
We were never
two interfused bodies.
We were never anything.
There was nothing in-between.
Forgive this.
Forgive these words.
Forgive me.
I am afraid I will make the same mistakes,
so I hide from everything that I love,
so I hide from everyone I care about.
I act as if we had nothing,
as if we were nothing,
as if you never held me
closer than we were.
We were two conjoined souls,
two interfused bodies.
To stop hiding, it is a long-forgotten dream.
To forgive myself,
forgiven I will be.
Though not today, but sometime soon.
Just today, I ask of you,
to forgive these words,
these thoughts,
these actions.
Literature
What happened to your voice?
your thoughts are jackals, yet
their twilight howls sound like cries
in your head;
you have been finding yourself
& not-
while trying not to sound so
sad.
so, Dear Heart,
you can write.
yet,
you stopped wearing your words
on your wrist
& all that hair you chopped off
this day a year ago, refuses
to grow back.
you turn, try to decode
your encyclopedia of powerful
spines, tearing at the pages
you wrote them upon.
angry, You were so angry.
& now?
nothing but an untamed, wild thing
you leave collared & quiet
in a cage.
Literature
everything has a dark side
i wish to be a creature of scandal,
of red lipstick and cigarette smoke;
i want to be flora-veined and
fauna-mouthed, with train tracks
on my wrists and
knife wounds in my
mannequin ribcage --
when i die, feed me
to the butterflies.
when the butterflies die,
eat them.
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NaPoWriPo, Poem #24
A poem about dissociation, something people with BPD often experience. It's where a person feels disconnected from reality, like either they or their surroundings aren't real.
A poem about dissociation, something people with BPD often experience. It's where a person feels disconnected from reality, like either they or their surroundings aren't real.
© 2015 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
Comments11
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really really like this
it's reposted here too ello.co/dissociativeidentitydi…
it's reposted here too ello.co/dissociativeidentitydi…