soft light

laying on a mattress of crushed lamictal

it's november when
the meds kick in, it's
december when i feel 
human again. (or maybe,
for the first time?)

i lack less.
found an appreciation
for something or another
dug up in the front yard
by a half-blind dog. 
appreciation for 
the living
and the 
quiet
small
moments. 

i used to know empathy,
used to take her hands 
between mine in 
cut scenes
but those were 
      trembling eras
        of seconds
        caught between
  an intensity i've since 
              given    away. 

an inferno. 

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet-
ween
high
ways

and

last bit 
of clouds
eating sun
like nectar
in the rearview:

or sweet talking 
directly into his eyes
at midnight, hearing
a smile in the smoke
that separates our 
houses. 

cats with twigs 
and dirt swimming 
in their bellies.
ghosts in the
woods beyond 
my car, 
yowling at 
the full moon 
as if they 
were born
to. 

i now know 
the silence and 
warmth of 
sleep. 

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm, 
a quaint silence
that does not 
burn at the 
                       touch. 

but 

the world is 
almost softer
                almost 
                              lighter    --

my skin is
held to-
gether
with 
some
thing
more 
than
glue. 

         (maybe
           stitches?)

i wonder
if i was 
human
the whole
time.