Poetry

2021
by @Saesenthessis_Telvanni

Saying goodbye to the year
That almost took me down
A year that broke my spirit in ways
I could never have imagined

Cheesy maybe
But I feel like a phoenix rising from the ashes
Or maybe more like an exhausted pigeon
Rising from the pile of trash

But
To this year's credit
It has given me Edinburgh
It has given me Hope
It has given me the feeling of aliveness
I thought I have lost

It all did come at a significant cost though
Paid well in advance
When I didn't see the value in what I was going through
And briefly, bitterly considered the Universe to be simply cruel

Was it worth it?
In a heartbeat I'll say yes
But that comes with the perspective
Of additional couple of months of staying alive
Of pushing through what I thought to be unbearable

Goodbye 2021
I'm glad I survived you
Heck, I even managed to live a little too

EL LLANTO DE LA SANGRE

by Sonia Arab
Twitter: @dirtysorrow
Insta: @matakonharu

Llevo en mi seno angustias que se extinguieron

cien años antes de que yo fuera concepto.

Se me agarran al pecho miserias que germinaron

para acompañarme hasta el último aliento.

 

Me miro las manos y, de tan mojadas,

parece que las hubiera lavado en el río.

Tanta lágrima lleva el cauce de mis palmas,

que la pena me llega a las muñecas.

 

Bajo el velo traslúcido de la carne que habito,

¿cómo pueden tan endebles afluentes

contener el insulto de tanta sangre ingrata?

Cada gota, esclava de cada despertarme viva.

 

¿Qué se oirá a la orilla de mis venas? En su garganta,

¿se ahoga también el llanto mudo de mi sangre?

Escruto las muñecas empapadas y, por un instante,

pienso en abrirlas, como puertas, y marcharme.

 

Luego, el tañido de una voz punzante que recela:

No creo en el suicidio, ni en un reino allá en los cielos.

No concibo que una nada mayor que esta duela menos.

Aguarda y, de la noche, acepta un óbito pasajero.

 

 

(Rough translation)

 

THE WEEPING OF BLOOD

 

I carry in my bosom anxieties that went extinct

a hundred years before I became a concept.

Clutching at my breast, miseries that germinated

to accompany me until my last breath.

 

I look at my hands and, so wet they are,

they look as if I had washed them in the river.

So many tears flow down the course of my palms,

that sorrow has come to reach my wrists.

 

Beneath the translucent veil of the flesh I inhabit,

how can such flimsy affluents

contain the insult of so much ungrateful blood?
Every drop, slave of every waking up alive.

 

I wonder what can be heard by the bank of my veins. In its throat,

does the quiet weeping of my blood too become stifled?

I scrutinize my soaked wrists and, for an instant,

I think of opening them -like doors- and parting.

 

Then, the twang of a wary, piercing voice:

I neither believe in suicide, nor in a kingdom up in the heavens.

I can't conceive of a greater emptiness than this hurting any less.

Wait and, from the night, accept a transitory death.

Steph James

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Bitter
by @Saesenthessis_Telvanni

The old familiar bitterness
Knocking at my door
So easily let in
When you see it all around you
Looking at you from every face
Every window
Painfully reminding me
Of what was
And what didn't come to be
When coldness took hold of my heart
And soul


And yet
There's a strange kind of comfort there too
Lingering familiarity
That feeling of stepping into the warm embrace
Of the past me I know so well now
The now me, on the other hand
Being a mystery
Painstakingly discovered
Day by day


It would be so easy
To give up and turn back
But I have outgrown
Breaking my own heart
And finding excuses to prevent me
From living


I wish it meant that fear has no place in my life now
Alas, it's still here
It has evolved with me
We seem to be on friendlier terms now
It being more of a guiding light
To opportunities for growth
Life lessons worth knowing
That an enemy
An obstacle
Preventing me
From moving forward

Masking With/Without A Mask
by Sarah Marie Graye

Masking is

Wearing a mask

Made of fabric layers

And elastic loops

To protect others

From Covid

 

But she is exempt

Because she is sensitive

To her skin crawling

 

It’s no easier than

Labels in her clothes

Or seams in her socks

 

 

Masking is

Wearing a mask

Made of a scramble

Of emotions

To protect others

From Autism

 

But she struggles

Because her everyday

Camouflage is fakery

 

It’s no easier than

Understanding the joke

Or making eye contact

Undiagnosed
by Hannah Ost

@itshannahost
www.itshannahost.com

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Blackout poem by Hannah 

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PTSD by R S Kendle
@rskendle 

It was hard at first

To think I’d feel whole again

Complete

-ly myself

 

After existing as something

Broken for so long.

 

Accrual of disorders,

Symptoms, schemas.

Gallimaufry of letters

 

To explain me.

My life condensed

To four characters.

 

But I’ve grown

Around the cracks.

Anxious by Maisie Ryan-Wareham
@maisie.georgina 

That fear of missing out

     when you make no effort to take part.

That want to love

     but the avoidance in letting yourself to do so.

The need to cry

     when you feel nothing.

The need to be alone

     but wanting someone when you are.

Seeing yourself working hard

     but feeling like you are never doing enough.

The desire to call someone

     while convincing yourself that you’re a burden.

Having nothing to say

     while your thoughts race and race.

Retreating from your friends

     because you’re scared of one day being left behind.

Everyone seeming to like you

     but knowing you don’t fit in.

Wanting to grow up

     but feeling like a lost, scared child.

Cutting people out

     and being haunted by their memory every night.

Feeling numb.

     Feeling tired.

          Feeling…

Sonnet for the Neurospicy 
by Sophia Murray

For the things you said in a white hot rage

And the nights spent on too much wine and fags

For never getting past the title page

And ignoring all their fucking red flags

For thinking that you deserve all of this

Taking what they say as holy gospel

You break and they hold you in their abyss

On autopilot, living like normal

For pretending everything was just fine

Because that’s how they want you to behave

For treading on eggshells, that thin white line

But praying in bed for an early grave

 

Live without this grief, inhabit this body

We only get one. Forgive me. Love me.

Embodimindment
by Kiera Hayles

Lindsay Eales and Danielle Peers speak of ‘embodimindment’. When we are forced to take caring for ourselves into our own hands, we find our ‘bodymindbeing under threat’, that ‘care is most dangerous when (others deem) it is most needed’. Is it most dangerous when it is most needed? Or most dangerous when others deem it most needed? What about when I deem it most needed? Coming out of lockdown meant crawling out of my happy cave. Suddenly all the nights of tears and obsessively checking daily covid death rates were forgotten. I hadn’t spent days crawling in circles around my room, clambering over the body of the person I once was. Suddenly, I was happy here, realising that I couldn’t be here anymore. I had lived in a bubble that was everything my bodymindbeing had wanted, no responsibilities but to care for myself as much as possible. An automatic excuse to feel rubbish, finally something other than myself to blame. The outside world had been a threat to me long before lockdown, but now the outside world was a threat to everyone, we were united, were we not? I wasn’t alone?

                    Waiting for me outside my cave,

                                   “you’re mad

                                    a mad mess

                                    consumed by

                                    your madness”   

                    Embodi(mind)ment

                    ha ha

                    I can consume you too.

 

Let’s feel this one out.

                                                                                             ‘thaw this panic’

Hold hands for a moment while I sit on the train.

                                                                                             ‘hold this hand’

I know, we hate the train, but hey look we’ve found a common foe. How about we join forces, you and me?

                    ‘What happens when sick people are the only ones who do not forget about eachother, but we are all extremely, extremely tired’

What happens when I (the mad girl on the train) forget the Me (the mad girl in the loft) that made my peace with myself, but am extremely, extremely tired, too tired to remember her (my) advice

                                                                                                          …

I’ll promise to stop the leg shaking

                                                                                                                                                                    if you swear you’ll stop the mind racing.