body work

manderley in july

**tw's: abuse implied, depression, trauma, disordered eating**

the throat & hand align—
& not for the first time.
i scream & it goes & echoes
inwards: the body is a tunnel—
one that is being dug in
whilst also dug out—even
though i said no—

now, you're
moving out
& i'm sometimes
moving on.
i guess this really is

july. today, on the edge of living
& then not. i keep thinking how
wonderful to be alive how

can i keep the feeling? or
am i doomed to be nameless in
manderley—losing my mind
over rebecca. to be so haunted
i forget i am alive, &
not on the other side—

the body does not know itself:
it tries to be held in a hotel room:
heat to heat. there is nothing there.
i am doing something wrong, am
i doing it wrong? is this why

this tuesday was hard? again
i can't get out of my childhood

room can't get out of the bed can't
get out of the womb

is the first grave. all summer,

i wake up with a gasp for air. no wonder
all this house carries is
dead plants
in the dead

silence of the night, all the time.
i even sleep with my eyes half open:
like i'm expecting the company—
just waiting for the terror
to come in.

today i live
for the blueberries.
the sound of the rain.
today i live,
& that's enough. there is no
need to speak. to speak of
being is already mourning.

last night,
i dreamt i went there again.
i barely wake, &
i know this hunger,
i don't know your face
this life is a lesson on grief
& i am learning

& this youth is teaching. i am
not

learning well. i am barely a
limb crawling on. i am
mothering no-one i
say: i didn't want to
—they say: but you did
& this is what it is.
i don't remember how to be good

god, i try. the bravest thing is to walk
away from the water. the saddest thing
is to walk away.

all i can be is remembering, not the memory—
blessed be my mother

made to make me tear her apart
—  frankenstein was the
monster first, but hailed beautiful:
how the turning of the screw absolves the welts,
a bruise is called a birthmark if caused by being held. &

now you no longer have the knife,
it's the memories that try to kill me.
what i don't remember, i eat &
i very rarely eat. sometimes, i eat the most.

all i can do is give into myself
aloneness is the real prayer.
i want to survive but fear i will not.
if i could change one thing it would be the
whole of my half—

it's too late. it was always too late,
even before it had begun. it's
okay that you didn't love me—i
wish you would have told me.
even if i see you again,
you won't be there. you're really
gone.

my god, i am trying. my heart is in
my mouth, but i don't bite. my
god, help me try
to be good. i am tired of watching the flames.