Part I: Earth
My head is pounding,
But the ground is comforting
You cannot fall any further than laying in the earth.
This is my baseline, my "fine"
This is okay, right?
At least, right now, I barely burn.
This hardly hurts, at least not in my terms.
Should I be grateful for this reprieve?
Relieved, that today I am not consumed?
That my costume of functional might fit?
I shouldn't resent it.
Shouldn't tempt fate.
It's not that I want to hurt,
It's that I hate pretending it goes away.
This fake image of Me does not do my suffering justice.
My mask itches, but it's stitched to my soul by a world that cannot hear "no" when they ask if you're okay.
I am not okay!
But for today, I will lay here.
I will smell the grass and feel the dirt under my fingernails,
I will let this solidity comfort me.
I will remember that my baseline climbs to ever higher ground, and I will be fine.
Part II: Green
The forest engulfs me.
Gently. Welcoming.
Its humidity embracing me,
Caressing each angry muscle in my body.
Here, I am healthy.
Here, I am capable.
Able. No longer left behind.
Here, I keep up. I am upright.
Under my own steam, I am in motion!
The ocean of pain that batters me, daily,
That drags me through its brutal currents
And hurls me against its jagged shores
At crushing pace, abates here.
Here, it is quiet.
I am at peace.
Here, everything is green.
Part III: Lightning
My veins do not run with blood, but with lightning.
Electricity flows through me, mapping each nerve in my body.
Touch me and I light up, but not like a Christmas tree.
Like a warning.
Like a monsoon is coming.
Red alert, panic stations, all hands on deck!
I am shipwrecked.
Tomorrow I will wash ashore, beaten and broken.
The ocean won.
This time.
Part IV: Fire
They call it a backslide.
To be expected with my condition.
The fire rippling through my body, melting me,
All a perfectly normal part of the process.
Part of progress.
Nothing comes cheaply, with this body.
And repairs are not easy.
There is no user's guide or DIY hack to put back together the things that wither in the heat of the flames that routinely claim my meat sack.
All I can do is burn, and hope that when the dust settles my charcoal remains can claw back my progress.
I trust in the process.
I will not resign myself to rickety, easy to rebuild forms.
This fire will be my forge.
I will forge ahead.
But for now, I will rest.
Until the embers are low and I am ready to be shaped anew, with renewed vigour.
Bigger, badder, better.
Just not yet.
