my cells staged a mutiny and I am unaware of its cause.
I awake as muscles pull and scream,
while the bed I left rolls on wheels,
cables following behind.
years of damage internalize and they tear down the walls.
with no reason at all?
there has to be a reason.
strangers hands inside me. feels wrong. i feel wrong whilst they insist i’m fine.
almost never been fine, don’t you remember?
things flood back.
crumble into flesh with bones that barely hold themselves
let alone secrets
let alone hope.
the bed I left bleeds and burns.
brace for impact, shift, relocate, dislocate.
there is a sinking ship somewhere.
i was once a tiny baby, too early for this world but growing normally.
do we even dare to think of a time when anything was normal?
the bed I left waits for me, like a returning lover.
will I always decline slowly with a body fit for collapse?
strong minds and kind words fumble;
maybe there’s no soon.
there’s almost always no better.
and the bed I left? it knows that for sure.
yet suddenly this is classed as aggressive
a term misjudged.
I was once mild.
the most confrontational element in my body
sits like a stone in my abdomen,
the most confrontational element in my body is the thing it grew itself.
not what it makes of me.
the bed I left sits in the corner as I stumble;
they make you walk to check you still can.
I signed a paper saying they could take what I had once I was done with it.
and there are stages.
no one ever mentioned that, did they?
it was polarized; impossible.
and we proved them wrong.
me and my body made of spite,
a creature of my surroundings.
hope to be manageable. managed.
I wasn’t before.
the bed I left holds ghosts in the same way I hold wreckage.
brief encounters on the surface pull
un-ending at the point of freedom.
I lay tied to this vessel so I hold on tight.
no pain hurts quite like nostalgia.
seen it all before, haven’t we?
but now we can’t look away.
now I hide behind the bed I left,
coaxed out by held hands and hope.
they gave me 5 years and I took 5 months.
much like pain,
time is not manageable.
remember pressure, texture, gloves, and
a held breath. was holding it in what bound us in the beginning?
rolling snowball grows and heads straight into an open fire
the bed I left has no time for my metaphors
it only cares for medicine.
maybe I’ll stay standing. play the role of doctor-educator. play it often.
they do it so badly.
my body and I have known for a while.
they told me to listen to it
then ignored my translations.
remember that sinking ship?
i’m stuck between it,
and the bed I left.