a poem about chronic pain (inside and out)

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Sometimes, I think, if I just lay still enough, quiet , motionless , the pain won’t find me where I sleep. Well , external pain (of course). Inside, I’ll forever be an empty echo clanking about a steel hall. I’ll always feel it rushing out, redacted, like a breath, lost in a vacuum. Depression is a wiry, black hound that caught my scent long ago. I am hers. She is mine. Two drops of the same anima I know, memorized in the fibers of my being, the sweet perfume of her musky…


a poem

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Pluck, baby, bend me like one of your guitar strings I say, I never seen someone quite like you — blue, them baby blues, you got a fire that got me hot, bothered; I can count the breaths on my neck I can feel the circles around my head, whisky spin — I am fifty shades of fucked up on that face, your steady pace strumming me soft, softly — your body is jagged smoothed by my hands I don’t need your name to be your altar reverenced by smoke, burning light me a cigarette breathe in slow…


a poem

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There was a time when I
hated my sister for blowing
the candles out sooner
Now, each March, I recall
shared birthday parties
never worth attending:

Not in my father’s eyes
nor my mother’s, again
I remember what’s it like
to have never been wanted.

I trace the ebbing of a
hypothetical: I wouldn’t
be here listening
to a ventilator.

They call it meth, we call
it escape, but how many
pills do you actually need
to forget your name?

One- two- three- god, it’s really not enough; you need a cocktail, sip, shoot, how many lessons are…


a poem

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I do not want to converse right now.
I want to be angry.
The bottle is filling, filling up
Accumulate until I finally explode.

BAM! POW! BANG!

The guts of my thoughts

SPLATTER!

Change not content
for the sake of measure
I have grown faint from adapting

My eye is in the future
but I feel a failure now
I’ll be building sandwiches
at thirty-three

My head, my chest, on fire!
It’s too much pressure, too much pressure.
Like squeezing air from a beach ball

I simply need to deflate

diffuse

Not enough air within, but too much…


another love poem

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A voice that blends
from cool and quaint
to bold and brave
Soft and smooth
in all he speaks

With cigarette in hand
hope in my pocket
I finally felt
his ribbon mouth

His hands found
the small of my back
and the nape
of my neck

Black, purple,
whisped locks
shades of grey,
sun-licked leather skin

I grabbed his clothes
pulled him in
consumed his air
then breathed
out
smoke

Moving, shifting,
fleeting spark —
he is a vapor
on my spine,
a faded flavor
on my tongue
he evaporated
quicker than
he puddled

He is…


a poem ‘cause we’ve all been there

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Honestly, I’m a bit satisfied
that your beer belly
came back with
vengeance . . .
And, I’m not sorry that
I don’t feel
[not in the slightest]
guilty.

No, not after you used
the callous of your veins,
your “generosity”
as woolen clothing,
[hiding your teeth]
to coax my spine into an arch,
a curve, gasping,
a sigh that said
you wanted me.

And, honestly, you could have
just told me: [I am small but
I am not weak —
my bones withstood
wolves before
you.]

I was a project you could work between your fingers, clay, malleable to…


a poem

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He kicks the pedal

loop.

click.

pop.

Now his head is bobbing.
Two boys play a game
of chess. Two pawns missing.
Their heads are bobbing,
too.

He’s picking to the
rhythm of his pulse.
He’s plucking to the
rhythm of my breathing.

The whole room
is one breath
now.
One heaving chest
one conscience
unified by
his six strings —

We’re all the body
and our energies
are spitting back
at each other.
Flying

back

and

forth

in this field of
thermochaos until
he steadies us
in a series of notes
sets us
in tune.

And he’s…


a poem about lost love and depression

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I pressed you asleep with my hands,
Rockabye of muscle and tissue
In-out-in
transformed to

in —

out —

in —

I gathered thirty-three stones and
stacked them in the shape of your
spine. Each with a rib attached
or floating. Rising and falling to the
steady rhythm of your slumber.

I whisper, “When you wake, you’ll
love me this much more.” For coaxing
you to rest. For calling your bones
by name and each responding. For
finding you beautiful even if I can’t
squeeze the sorrow from your
veins. …


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No more shady grays
no more cigarette mornings
I lost you in the winter
when the time was ripe.

Where will you go?
to your slumdog cities
where the trash rots
sweet-sickly in the streets.

Trolley man, trolley man
take me away!
where the starlight cools
burning sun blisters.

Land of the free,
I am imprisoned by you
I am lost in bank notes
my rent dollars are scattered.

Bury me, bury me,
bury me above the ground
in my house under my
piles of paper mail.

When does it end
my sweet dove?
When do your friends
stop leaving?

Stephanie Blossoms

Poet, writer, artist, gardener, devout reader, former chef-wannabe, using words and paints to figure out her place in the world.

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