Category Archives: Trauma

Narcissus & Echo

The sobs of Narcissus are buried in my chest like an endless blackness, the dark shadow which he never can capture as he lays enraptured by his gaze. I feel his heart on my heart as his flawless body rests on top of me, spent from the endless pursuit of penetration. He enters me, yet nothing ever enters him, in that sense he remains virginal, searching the lonely sea within me for his own reflection. His perfection is like an unbreakable glass mirror, where I remain shattered. I don’t want him to see how much I need him, how deeply enamoured I am by his every movement, and equally by his stillness when his eyes gaze off in the distance, unable to focus on any one person for too long. He blinks and the butterflies flutter. He cannot tell a single truth, for he knows not his true self, a God-like being annihilated in infancy. I want him to know that I will not leave him, even after he abandons me. I want him to find his true vision like an infinite mark of hope tattooed on his soul. I want him to know he is more than this body which forsakes him in his time of need, oh Narcissus, hear my eternal echo, see how I keep myself afloat when you drown in the massive ocean of these other worldly expectations. Can’t you see my ability to die and resurrect myself in spite of your fatal envy? You will hate inexplicably of this I am certain, and yet your hate is only an illusion of your real identity, which got lost in it’s own reflection, and never given the chance at self- expression, never given wings to fly, the unhatched egg of potential, which burns with all the force and passion of an atomic bomb. I drown myself. I do this daily, every time your voice becomes more distant, and yet I resurface again alone in the silence where our world’s lie forever separated.

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Filed under Identity, Illusion, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Mortality, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Deference

No baby, I don’t think it’s that you are incapable of being happy, I think you just have more receptor cells for sadness. The little molecules of joy float away from you. The reason it hurts is because your threshold is low, and you’ve built a tolerance for sadness.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

Before the Abyss

Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.

When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.

Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.

We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…

listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.

120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.

The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,

our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.

The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,

Before the abyss, and after the abyss.

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Filed under Butterfly, Canada, Canadian, Distance, Medical, Memory, Past, Poem, poetry, Science, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Time

Is a river that rushes onward
Is a vein that ruptures inward
Is an emotion that stagnates
on the cuff of bloodied sleeve.
Is all those who leave me
Or allow me to leave.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Rupture

The day love turned abiotic is the day my corpse lay in bed and did not move for a century. In that century a sentence was written, that contained the entirety of what I felt. The simplicity of a ray of light, wherein all the sun was contained lay in the secular shadow of the curtains that hung like death waves over my window, each time the wind blew, the tide of my life pulled out, then in, then back away from me, and as some wish to recover this, I did not. I slept for a moment, one could not measure, yet in that moment, eternity, and with it all hope, all desire or need of ever waking. The velvet box in which my love lay, they shoveled upon it the earth, on the outside, metal latches and mahogany, within no scream, no dream, no vision, simply velvet mouth where words never fell, velvet tongue, where thoughts dissolved like acid, turning the light into sharp particles of memory, of a time when we walked near the ocean together, and your hand, as I reached for it, became black molecules of star dust fading. The earth, which I used to revere suddenly seemed absurd for being here all these billions of years. Why did it go on regrowing, regenerating all that dead mass of emptiness and decay, If you were only going to go away? Go away, then return again, as this blade, cutting into me, in the center where my heart once beat like the wings of a bird flying home. I’ll stay here clutching my head, my heart, my body, all these things you wouldn’t hold, these things too big for this world to contain. I’ll choke and hemmoraghe, I’ll convulse, my eyes will grow weary where they once shone. All this will take place in a moment, and in that moment each part of me will surrender and retrace each part of you back through time, until it’s as though neither of us were ever here. I’ll erase those parts you said were forever young, replace them with wrinkles and routine, the carefully constructed silence of these walls, this depth from oceanic to a measured distance of six feet, of a life compacted into fragments and unwanted bones. I’ll do all this alone as I walk and breathe, smile and attentively seem to be here, the world won’t know otherwise. It will be my secret. One day a patient will say, those nurses are all so jaded, it’s as if they’ve seen life, watched it fade away day by day, but never cared to make it stay, and I’ll say nothing, I’ll smile and donate my blood as if I always loved and never knew the feeling of a heart break.

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Filed under Freedom, Hypocrisy, Loss, Love, Pain, Poem, Repressed, Sorrow, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Miasma

Black treacle swan. White albino swan. Watching them from the edge of the pond, how they enter eachother like shadows. Watching them swim graceful at first and then the eventual bloody aftermath and after death, the afterbirth of their mating. Their courting is a prelude to homicide. Enter me, perpetual gaping wound that never heals, with your sword of forceful pokes and prods into my interior. It’s a wonder something uglier does not arise from the tide of her open thighs at labor station 23 on a red gurney. Patient x has given birth to the newest antichrist. It cries for more white fluid. I see the pond as ice and the birds as a nightfall of snow and the aftermath of nuclear bombing. His penis is akin to Chernobyl, all cut up and radioactive. She has ovaries like missiles where future bombs await. Shrapnel of climax that’s all we are, anticlimactic and nuclear active space travelers. Cut, snip, tie off the umbilical noose from which we are all hung, twist it hard and breech me as a newborn suicide. Legs out first, cord wrapped around my neck like a final testament. Beautiful in the winter when the northern lights play music in colour, better than a world of endless gray. This is how I’ll stay, gracefully gliding along a crystal surface of glass, where the ghosts tap tap tap to be opened like a cracked womb of gushing river blood. I whistle your purple brilliance and green resplendence into a frenzy of sky spirits that dance out from the melting miasma, the plasma in a tube mixed with opioid brilliance that filters out the white noise. Kiss me nebulous. Inject me with your love, receptors, receptors, respond. We have a code 798, clear, singe, spiral, smoke, inhale, choke, listen to that silence! It’s coated by softly falling snow and the careful circles the ice dancer makes upon our grave in figure 8s, infinity signs, lines that stretch on forever from continent to continent of loneliness.

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Filed under Malady, poetry, Sex, Shadow, Snow, Soul, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Uncertainty

Not even the birds fly graceful,
a small jay darts by,
clipping his wing on a branch,
he lets out a cry, not like a song,
more like a siren.
The squirrel in his attempt
to scale the tree
has fallen twenty feet onto the street,
his body carries one last jolt of adrenaline to hurry him out of the way of traffic, but his eye hangs like a marble on a string,
without the nerve to face the world.
The house across the way is slanted,
ready to fall at any time.
The sun has forgotten to shine.
The clock won’t keep time,
the hands have stopped at an hour unknown to me,
unknown to anyone,
least of all my blood in a vial,
in an icebox of uncertainty.

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Filed under Broken, Chaos, Poem, Trauma, Upheaval

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing