here and now and never before

"I'm not the problem," I say.  

"A creak of a floorboard.

The feeling when my fingers graze the light switch. 

Every pore is a dichotomy 

between what is and what could be. 

An illusion

of control."

She told me to trust my body; 

its shakes and hurricanes. 

There's a moment 

when everything will make sense. 

Bore straight through the center, 

but use a shovel. 

On the right, there's shrapnel from a bullet I took when I was young. 

On the left, something more solid and whole that never stops. 

I cried when I realized I was broken, my eyelids like glass shattering

the diamond that lives inside of me,

endlessly,

until my body bursts apart and is buried. 

The rocks that formed me,

layer by layer, 

become the sediment in the cave

where fireflies sing behind my ears. 

I want the tears to wash down from my head to my toes, 

so I can feel 

like myself again.