if only you hadn't left your drink

sitting there on the balcony

in hot, carolina heat

sweating, swirling with the pulp,

beads of perspiration

counting the seconds

like a clock -

then maybe

when you lost it

and your temper finally snapped

and your hand slipped and

the knife thudded to the deck,

the drops of blood

wouldn't have dripped

dripped

dripped

right into the glass

with the striped paper straw

and the long-melted ice

and I would not have looked down

and seen my own life

blossom and bloom in the glass

and I would not have

any reason to hate

pink lemonade

or any lemonade,

the way that I do now.

"so why does your doctor think you have cancer?"

news to me, but I answered the lab technician anyway. it's not real - can't be. I won't research. who, me? me, pull up Jstor and my alumni library database to pull the latest research? me, print it out at the public library, paperclip each one together, and label it with a blue sticky note with 'neuroendocrine/carcinoid tumors' in Sharpie to add to the piles of research that I have *not* done to figure out What Is Wrong With Me, because no one else cares to? Never.

I already read them all. I read them twice each. probably more. I've sat on them for days, all three. I ignore the symptoms part. can't go down that rabbit hole - I'm looking for something else. I want facts. I want statistics.

How long do they take to grow? (9 years). How long do people live if you catch them early enough? (perfectly fine long lives). How often are they caught early enough? (Not nearly as often as they should be). What are the odds of development in the pelvis, not the abdomen?

too slim, according to my specialist, to be worth another scan. she originally ordered me a Full-Body PET. My insurance denied it. It was amended to a triple phase abdominal CT (contrast). Now, my flare is easing up. I look "better." I sound "better." there is no need to push insurance for that scan, now. its so rare, anyway.

That word builds a whole world in my head, though. its latched onto me, to the depths of my soul, and not in the special-snowflake-syndrome pleasant way, but in the severely unpleasant one which makes you wish you had been born as anyone else. "Rare." carcinoid tumors in the pelvis are rare.

it's rare. okay, like POTS? like Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome? or rare like Mast Cell Activate Syndrome? like red hair, or amoxicillin allergies, and ambidexterity, and perfect pitch? rare like the worst case of domestic abuse & violence seen in the state of New York in someone's four decade career? rare like losing three friends before we were even 18?

tell me, Doctor, because I have been extremely unlucky in my life. do you mean to say that the odds are so low - that it is rare like all of that? because if so, given my track record, it seems like this is a risk I cannot take.

so I leave the appointment and drop the façade and sleep for the next three hours, because that's what clinic does to you - wipes you out. and I spend my day nauseous, hoping not to throw up, aware of the fact that yes, I have the weight back, and yes, I feel pretty good lately if we're gonna compare, but it isn't going to last. I know this cycle. I know what comes next. soon everything will change and nothing I eat will digest properly. I'll lose 20 pounds in two weeks, and it won't be a good thing, and I will once again feel like I am dying. on the third week, just as quickly, it'll stop. the weight will come back in two to three more. I'll be "stable" for maybe a month, if I'm lucky. any longer is rare.

rare, like neuroendocrine tumors in the pelvis - apparently not worth assessing for.

words have fled my tongue

because while I have been home,

ostensibly 'healing', all i can think

is that once again

i am receiver of an unjust universal balance,

righteousness for those crimes

i cannot remember, far before

I was me.

i'm suspended in time

too far from the past

and yet fingers just missing

the latest future as it barely slips by

escaping the grasp of this creature

I Am.

Love.

is rebellion,

in a universe that bids me

to surrender to bitter nothing.

attempts to push me further past the edge

of empathy

taunts me to my limit with each miss of new time-spun futures I glimpse,

glowing and warming my skin in this void

each one netted together, bound tightly

(don't let it get out - it's worth more than you are!)

and the worst are the ones

where the buzz is alive;

energy dancing, drawing me in,

only to glance off the pads of my fingers, leaving me

Desperate with a taste of possibility

then drawing away in a mico-second.

this endless prison that binds me with infinitesimal new threads

that emanate from every angle,

(or rather, non-angles of timeless, shapeless void)

but will not allow me to move forward or back--

this, I think, is true hell.

please pardon my silence.

speaking is pain

that I cannot endure

without compromise.

everyone is always

so scared

of a suicide note

but they don't think

about how

paper, and letters,

words in

pen or graphite, or

typed and printed out

typed out and

in ink,

they are all

harmless.

words are just words.

they cannot end a life.

so better to write

letter after letter -

dozens of them,

if that's what you need.

because in the end

writing a letter

or two

might just be

the one thing

that keeps you

alive

for long enough to

remember

why it is

you ~should~ be.

writing

your suicide note

might just

be what

saves you.

I must have been young

when I learned

the proper steps

how to wash my hands

to keep clean from germs.

in pre-school theey said,

"sing your ABCs"

"Happy Birthday twice"

but it wasn't anyone's birthday,

and ABCs were boring.

i sang twinkle, twinkle

little star

how i wondered

where and why and how -

can't the universe

know better

than to punish children

who are innocent

by giving them to parents

who hurt them?

twinkle, twinkle

little star

children only go so far

little hearts and little minds

cannot handle cruelty's lies

twinkle, twinkle

little star

what would punished parents fix?

my siblings never

saw the pain

the need for staying clean

i protected still

kept them neat so

he'd not scream

they never saw him

touch my mother

i would reassure

that the noises in the

room next door

were nothing of concern

and even after everything

he let the virus grow

he'd planted so early that

I'd failed to even notice

never stood a chance

never had a moment to

recant the tales that

he told to them.

horrid deeds, feed them poison

break the things

they work to gain

break their will

manipulate, take everything

to make them change

behavior to behave your way

and all the while

lay the blame on

someone else,

talk and train their tiny brains

to hate, repeat

the things you say

play the game

dissociate the damage

from the virus, take

the keys from the ignition

put them in the hands of

the main victim

of your violence.

this is how he did it.

never *had* to buy their silence.

put a gun up to their heads

spit the hatred and the filth

tell them line by line

lies and stories that you built.

and in the end it worked.

it works, I should say.

but no one else could see it.

no one knew he hurt

her in that way but

me. so they believed the words.

Viruses are dangerous.

but people?

we're far more so.

we get power to decide

to protect or let die

and even with the former

we can doom a person's soul.

because I protected them

i didn't let them see it

how he'd hit her and beat

how he'd yell and he'd scream

i kept them in a bubble,

and I thought it made me good

as a six year old big sister

like age-six big sisters should

and instead, you wanna know?

wanna hear what happened?

with no memories of him

as bad guy, mom the victim

he hijacked the habits

he got through the firewalls

undeveloped mainframes

easily bypassed and hacked

straight into their brains,

turning perpetrator 'victim'

and innocent to 'cruel'

he brainwashed with accompanying actions, words, and tools

results forever devastating

"mom" now equals "fear"

it equals memories of

threats in harm and violence

and years of childhood trauma,

two decades each of pain

he flipped the script

made "mom" a word

synonymous with "witch."

if only it were easy

to wash our hands of sin

and our brains of the hurt

that takes control of the center

a virus in motion, growing

spreading, resistant to

treatment;

nothing to do

but manage

the symptoms

and hope

(and pray)

that one day

they will wake.

why is everything you write

every line, word, and phrase

crafted oh so terribly and grimly?

don't worry yourself about

my melancholy words

and the shifts in my mood

chasing dopamine tricks, no,

I write love letters to death

at least twice a week

although, sometimes more,

see, last night I wrote three -

but the thing about letters and paper

is that they always will be

the best of two choices.

(i flirt with Death, while

you steal from the hearse.)

hush, now. don't waste time

on brittle land, salted earth

that grows naut but bitterness

save it for better fields

sew the world with your words

in places of some care

where roots may take hold.

"hey," I hear the voice whisper,

one time I laid down

as the static in my brain grew louder

and louder

and instead of fighting the nausea

instead of fighting my brain

to pop the pills keeping me alive, or

take the chemicals into my veins

instead of measuring the dosages

and mixing liquid hydrogen bonds

flavored with grief

of a life that keeps on *changing*,

"want to be a child? never.

grow up to escape? not realistic.

athlete, soldier? stolen dream.

teacher, writer? next to scene -

scientist, researcher, even?

don't think you can pretend you didn't hope for happiness. but darling, let's be real -

dreams like these weren't made for you."

and so when the whispers stopped I realized I was crying

and yet I hadn't moved

just me, still, plugged into the earth

remove my tired veins.

please. please. I beg you. please, just let me be.

my throat and voice are raw

from choking down my screams

and i'd like to say i want to fight

it might have been true once

but i no longer have it in me

to lie

so please

let me die.

because i don't want to

fall through the cracks

of this system

the same one that put me

to live with my abuser

so that i cannot even rest

in peace

at night

all I know is fear,

and you can tell me

that I sleep

but the things that I see

at night say otherwise

and this vessel isn't one I want any more,

see I prayed my whole life to know why I was born into the place

that I was

my existence a punishment

and me and God

have beef, cause

i'm pretty sure he made

certain to create me

only as a means

of torture, because

how else could I have come out of my childhood alive

except for as I am?

broken in mind

incapable of trusting

with a body shutting down

betraying me since 14

i cannot do three more decades of this hell

(and I'm certain that it is.)

let me wake up, or sleep

I don't care which

I cant breathe

I cant breathe

let me be

I just want peace

I just want to be at peace

and I think I've earned that much

i'm ready. please, let me leave.

feel the shift, zapping

short circuits in my brain

ringing ears are flashing

pulling me between dimensions

where glass grits

between gears

gli-

gli-

gli-

gli-

glitches slash

tears into the fabric

and reality, its

fingers, the shards,

slivers of the crystalline

micro-needles stitching

stabbing

zig zag patterns

in erratic

attempt

Stop.

hold it together,

not psychotic

not physic[al]

eclectic and epileptic

look the same

sure

but one dose less

of doses better

left un-skipped

and I no longer

know fear

from

self- hatred

or neglect

and when nothing

feels real

let me be

first to say

i apologize

i didn't mean

for things to

go this way

unzip

my skin

let me back

inside

i cannot control

anxiety

but maybe I

can turn this life

to dust instead,

around me

if nothing left

to fear

at least nothing

worse here could

come than that

i forced from

fractured

moments

of clarity where if

i had known

exactly what it was

that i'd been

doing

I may have been

able to put it to

a stop. but

in the end it

falls on me

the fault

the break in

my world

plates shifted

i caused it, now

i'm sure, because

it's easier to

sew up hurt

when you know

the pain is coming

and the dust

that settles

on ashes

ive burnt

is mine alone

to choke on

no return

punch. keep going. again. again. again.

don't stop. don't you *ever* fucking stop. even when your body betrays you, don't you dare stop the assault, keep punching through to feel something, to feel anything, to feel the

anger.

not at them. it's not their fault, after all, that you're gullible, soft, easy to manipulate; not anyone else's fault that you're a whiny piece of shit. you won't last much longer anyway. but it's not their fault. not the world's. not anyone else's

but yours.

it's yours.

feel that rage that takes form in stinging on your skin, warm, hot blood dripping in rivulets down knuckles, lusting for the floor. might as well, at least. while you still can.