Brialee Turner

It is misty in my mind,
and my heart feels like
it is on fire with anxiety.

I don’t trust my
mind to
explore.

I’m trying to navigate,
but there is nothing in the heavens,
so I don’t know where to go.

No one has taught me
what it means to question,
to be lost,
and so I feel as though
this lack of purpose
and questioning of love,
(and identity)
is a failure.

I thought that the lights
that I clutched so desperately
would always stay to guide me,
but it looks as if I am
on my own.

Fresh scars form,
covering my legs, hips, and arms
with first bright red,
then a milky maroon,
then thin peach lines.

It’s a pattern of pain,
I feel the shame that builds
and boils inside of me,
and it has nowhere to go,
just like me.

I try to shape my body
to perfection,
attempt to sculpt how others
see me so that they won’t
know that I deeply hate
who I am.

I am hiding,
even from myself.
I refuse to explore the
vastness of my personal
universe and instead
begin to dismember
myself so that I can build
the armor that will
protect me from the
questioning that I sense
will come when I attempt to map
the constellations of
my life.

The days and then the nights
blend together because I
cannot see the celestial
landmarks that used to
anchor me.

I float without
purpose.

I wonder if the cosmos
would even notice
if one star was missing,
like I do.

Time seems to be
blackness, and
I cycle through the sabotage
in order to create a sense
of living, a feeling
in my flesh and bones.

******

And when I meet her,
something stirs inside of my heart.
I don’t recognize
that I am in love.

I cling to this new
friendship because I
am accepting the love that I think
that I deserve.

I feel as though if
I let go of her,
I will let go of myself.