A Felted Heart


I wish I were healthier.


I wish I weren’t so alone


I wish I were normal.

The gods of 11:11 seem to be busy with other cases, lately. All of those things sting.

My senses are clearer, these days, it’s like this:

the depression is, as ever, present, at times a knife blade, but I see it, instead of it seeing me, if that makes sense. I can move forward with it flickering and sometimes burning in my chest, because there’s where it’s staying right now. It’s not everywhere, bringing me down in shackles.

But all of those things sting.

I wish I were normal, and I didn’t go into a sports bar in a kilt and rainbow socks. But I did, you could cut the tension with a knife. I lasted until the end of the second period before I knew I was defeated. They were laughing at me on the patio, as I was leaving, with the old ‘is that a boy or a girl’ routine.

I wish I were healthy, and my meds didn’t exhaust me into napping and into the caffiene nation, or ravage my insides so badly that walking about is a chore and the best of my nutrients come from gatorade.

I wish I weren’t so alone.

I have friends from the past, that I’ve tried to regrow something new with them, but it’s fallen apart in my hands. I have blood family, and they don’t want to talk about the things that hurt. My chosen family is all but gone. I had a cobbled up patchwork something, to me it was beautiful, that kept me warm. Now it’s just me and my cat.

I try to reach out, but it doesn’t work and I just curl up in shame.

My heart is a loose bag of felt triangles. You can barely feel an edge, or substance, about to give up. I think all the triangles are the times it has broken, and it’s about to come tumbling down.