four poems
kim naeseth

 

You say psychotic like it’s Terrible. You say psychotic like it’s terrifying. It is terrifying. You say psychotic like it’s not seeing men in the middle of the night in the clothes on your door or the shadows of your car. You say psychotic like you don’t know what you’re talking about. You say psychotic like it’s not treatable, like it can’t go away, like it’s forever and ever.
 

 

 

It’s hard to do yoga when your brain is telling you die die die die die die die die die during downward facing dog in between breaths.
 

 

 

Does time heal all wounds? Does time melt my trauma with each second passing? Are the ticks and tocks supposed to distract me from the pain that envelops my muscles, the very fiber of my being? The days remind me I can survive and live and thrive, but they do not make me forget. How can time heal something that doesn’t feel like wounds, but rather, the total costs of living daily in a resentful body, when resentful is your norm? I don’t think time knows how to battle chronic pain.
 

 

 

I wanna be bad with you baby. I wanna say bitch hurtfully. I wanna be reckless with my words. I wanna hate my body without shame. I want to love my body. I want to stop taking my medication. Medication feels like a sin, but not the sexy kind, just the boring kind your punk friends warned you about. It’s not that I give a shit about Big Pharma, because truly I do not, and it’s not that I’m ashamed of taking the pills but it’s hard to swallow the fact that each day, three times a day, I am reminded I am batshit crazy and need pills in part to stay alive. The chemical dependence I resent but love, and want to, but am afraid to, live without.