Dear Lord,
tell me what it is like
to wake up and breathe.
What is it like to stretch and yawn
without the brain immediately telling
your muscular system
to get your body buried six feet under?
Tell me what it is like
to not exercise
until your throat feels as if
it getting sliced with ice from the inside.
Of course, the feeling isn't as satisfying
as the blade on my left arm.
Tell me what it is like
to go to sleep at night
without crying yourself dry
and what it is like to end up falling asleep
without being in the process
of squeezing your abdomen.
Tell me what it is like
to be satisfied
with what you see in the mirror
and what it is like to not feel the need to smash your reflection.
What it is like
to be happy?
Sincerely, me.
YOU ARE READING
Eunoia
PuisiBehind every poem is a story too afraid to be told bluntly. . . . I intend to write to make you feel.
