I have buried you so far in my darkness,
and prayed for your suffocation.
But still you breathe, still you beat,
A steady rhythm in the back of my mind,
a metronome of mistake tick-tick-ticking.
you remain, you are not remains.
you should be a skeleton, stark white and starved;
shoved to the back of my closet, all bones and death.
But still, you breathe, still you beat,
you are pounding down the doors,
screaming through my hallways.
you have become the darkness,
creeping in, crawling across my skin, caressing my heart.
You breathe, you burn, you beat (ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum).
I look at you,
and sometimes the darkness is so overwhelming that I forget:
I forget the way you smile with your whole face.
I forget your toothy grin when I roar and blow raspberries on that sweet tummy.
I forget your chunky thighs, tiny fingers and toes, and natural curiosity.
I forget your bright blue innocent eyes.
I forget that to you, I am the whole world.
I forget that I chose you, that I wanted you, that you are as perfect as a human can be.
Because all I see is the way I fail you.
All I feel is your pain, and my inability to heal you.
All I hear is your anguish.
Sometimes I look at you, and I am so deep in my own darkness
that I cannot see your light.
I’m doing my best,
please be gentle with me.
Postpartum blue is estimated to affect 80% of women. Postpartum depression is estimated to affect 10% of women.
I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like thinking about it. This is my truth right now.
-the smell of his skin keeps her alive, in those small moments before the dawn breaks when she wants nothing more than to let the breath rattle from the depths of her soul until there is not even a whisper. He is there, in those moments, and his hand is brushing her waist, and his chest is pressed against her so tight that all she can do is breathe. Steady now, in and out. Steady now, follow the rhythm of his heart beat.
I was tired of scrambling around to find the good things. I was sick of trying. Tired of lying. Sick of watching the masquerade that played around me. Who was real and who was not? Tick, tock, I was running out of time. Out of energy. Out of will. Out of self.
I was burning to the ground. Falling as the sun crisped my wings. The blood was staining my hands. We all fell down.
I longed for the innocence of a child. The naivety. The imagination that could create worlds without having to sleep. I needed someone to light my candle. Replace the wick. I was going too fast, trapped in a box with no sound.
The ocean was crashing over my head. I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in. Wasn’t anyone there? Can anybody here me?
(Is this just another story?)