Kryptonite, Mental Health

Slipping out of twilight’s swallow

No more, the fragile figurine
A damsel I played at twenty-three
Bewailing old-time wrecks
Shyness usually describes a
modest daughter
But I like crunching the shells

Forget-me-nots scattered at where I end, and another begins
Teeter tottering, a mechanism for equilibrium
Has been replaced with circling the well
For wishes are like rituals prescribed
When the highs and lows are unbearable and through a meaningless loop
Tell no one, for they might sneer and smear your name
Their sweet shared insincerity
are lampshades, to their white hot souls

She called me naive
Ha! All beauties are lures
Eyes are flowers, just blobs of brain on stem
The elaborated mating scheme,
As if he ever noticed my almond petals
Like the possibility of
various UFO shapes
All he saw were dark pools
To sink himself back in
And remind me of my insignificance
Now, onto your self-deprecating,
The hand washing

The abject fear,
My prickly mind taunts
In the same moment of reminding you to swallow your weakness, she says,
“Don’t be a pushover”

Art: Elentori Words: NaRa

 

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Mental Health

Elasticity

The self sabotage roping you in.
How to trust in that shaky hydra of skin?
As you search through it all,
Everything you thought was love;
Horded into corners.
Pushed aside, rummage through,
When your mind can bare to touch it.
Separate the conversations,
Into more tolerable piles.

Stacked up to the ceiling;
All those long ago friends.
You behooved their art,
Spinning wonder towards
The ethereal 9 to 10.
Treasures found in medicine cabinets, borrowed hasselblad lap shots
On bedspreads, and shower curtains,
Became sudden backdrops.

His black hair tugs
At your memory strings.
Backwards in the darkroom
For the make-out session.
Only wanted you as a moving stranger.
We exposed and dramatized our Destructions.
Too much vodka weeping
And highway speeding.
But he followed you home;
To thread you into a knot
And began to call you his friend.

How many more after him?
Lowell’s alarm,”they’ll never come back.”
His firewords,
Burned it all down,
Heaps of ashes.
It was idealistic,
The origin of expectations
For them.
At last you can’t pretend.

In the morning,
You still have your asana
And a mantra to reshape and liberate; everything you’ve enslaved.
For daily shallow sighs, eventually snowballs into an avalanche.
Only your breath remains
For the restitution.

Art: Sara Willett

Words: Nara

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Mental Health

Therapy I

Platitudes and sighs

daily reel sheep shadows

retreat to Chaplin laughs

where the poor wasn’t nameless

recall the time when the mind,

was golden in levity

today’s calandiva crushed underfoot

clumsy as “The Tramp”

hoarding cushions

talk in loopty loops

bupropion refills

repeats

to backsliding

February, CocoRosie’s Gallows

stretched beyond the injuries

siesta—the sun’s discontent

up for a trip

swan-song in sleep

awakens to violet

wisteria florescence

in a poem

on a porch

in Andalusia

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Mental Health

E.C.T. BEE FREE

She’s a lovable bundle of anxiety.
Thoughts like a cluttered
Chelsea Hotel room.
Awkward with a sizzle.
What is this divine activity?
Her buzzing daemons chattering above.
They’re winding her up.
Building in her an electrical current;
To feed her thoughts
That seldomly go array.
She needs to transcend out of this.
Needs a renewing mantra.
To dive into the alpha.
And awaken back into earthly arms.

Poem and Drawing: Naomi Ruth

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Mine Na 12.

Night of Plight

 

In September’s chambers
Where I stretch out
Cry out
Choke on life’s droplets
Feel the stabs across my chest
Of unquiet love, burned down to sorrow’s howl

Search for reasons in piled books
To be pulled up by fish hooks
Reclaim the joucned amygdala

But Lowell’s ungoverned course
Clings like black iron to my knife

I’m to blame
I sent the invite
And they dance around me
But never kindly touch me
They use magnets to pull from me
What they want
To spin it for their own glory dust
But tonight my back is turned
From these warm hosts
To lay once more with my little ghost

Photograph: Francesca Woodman   I could no longer play

Poem: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt

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