To My Less Than Perfect Life


To my less than perfect life,


which now seems to bend upon itself

once a straight path now twists and turns instead

like a pair of hands curving around clay

spinning and molding and spinning all-day

like a pair of hands around my neck


I forgive you


in a breathless whisper, I decide,

I forgive my lungs & the build-up of blood inside

in fact, I will reach my hand down and pump my lungs myself

but living right on the boundary doesn't help

between a world of wasted potential

and my own perpetual trial and air, or

my hands that reach out, for anything but heart

confirm a suspicion I had at the start


there is a bomb inside my chest which beats

and beats and beats and beats


to my less than perfect life,

which seems like an unfinished poem written mid-surgery

of wire-like nerves tangled in a mess

of which I repeatedly trace on my desk

but only halfway

I don't know how to untie

this double-knotted shame


maybe that explains why I can't breathe


heard it a million times

tick tick tick

it’s ceaseless drumming, a constant reminder

of the feelings which stick

(regret & loss)



sometimes the only thing we have in common,

I realize

is

our damage, despair, and everything despite it,

ticking down by the minute



to my less than perfect life,

which couldn’t be further from fated

to my blanket made of stomach lining,

and the eventual implosion of self-hatred

to my less than perfect self,

who cracks under the pressure of

the disappointment on my shoulders shelved,

who starts to burst at the seams

dealing with my mental health

when it lies at these extremes


there is more hurt here than comfort,

there is more wrong here than right,

it's a medical miracle

that I

somehow

still cling onto my less than perfect life.






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