I don’t usually write poetry but here is one:
The days that hurt the most are…
The days when I find myself overindulged in emotion.
Stuffed to the brim, crammed full, overflowing, bursting at the seams.
Coming apart and undone.
These are the days when having senses feels like a chore.
The days when even air seems to have too much mass.
Being matter, material hurts.
So I retreat into a state of supposed serenity, disappear into seclusion.
Her. The hermit.
Because just being with myself is too much. And how do you explain to people that you feel overwhelmed by feeling, that your skin crawls at normal sensation?
How do you tell someone there isn’t a reason for feeling like the slowly melting snowman, the girl who seemingly digresses into a puddle of primordial goo?
Because sometimes bodies feel like prisons. Confined to a space not to exceed 5’3″ and who knows how many inches around.
A tiny speck on the existential radar.
All of space, all of time, all of matter.
Endlessly vast, expansive.
And each of us is enclosed in a single fleshy encasement.
Bits and pieces of us dying each day, disappearing into the pores of the earth, the spaces of our habitation.
Parts escape in fluids, excrement, bodily wastes: the matter that doesn’t seem to matter. But it does.
It’s you, swimming through plumbing, oceans, rivers.
It’s you, your tears, your sweat, seeped into the invisible spaces of things.
It’s your code.
Coded by your body, the encasement you must claim as your own.
Forced ownership. It’s yours.
You, traveling and mingling, leading microscopic lives with the minuscule, misfitting matter of others.
It’s peculiar. And to me, it’s painful.
It’s simple existence. It’s being me and not me. It’s just life.
Time. Space. Matter. That’s all.