I was given a life.
So I swear every time I planned
its end I was not taking it,

I thought I was taking it back.
I was 1 week in recovery then
45 minutes
then 2 years
then. 3. weeks.
But I didn’t know why.
There are people who want the ill for us
more than projected invisibility
have granted us pain.
People whose shadows live
in our skin,
whose hands – 2 years later – still whisper on the neck.
People whose names might as well be our diagnosed, sick.

But on days when these hands become more than shadows
On days when I could sing his fingerprints without peaking
On days when my weight just might burn a hole
in the couch,
when I beg from my body
and it screams back to me,
I take my life a different way each time.
I take the life I was given.
Never through hurt. Why should I become a name on my own effing chart?
No. I am in the sole possession of
my open air
and every day I get to take my life back by living.
And that is enough.


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