Blue Bird

She's addicted to nicotine patches.

Addicted to spilling blood, hoping someone will notice.

Hoping someone will see her. 

She's a nightingale who's starting to feel like she'd be safer if her feathers lost their shine, but feathers can't do that on their own, can they? She has to put herself in harm's way to help that along. She doesn't know how to dull her own shine, that's the problem. But he knows. And she knows. 

She sees that gaggle standing in the corner and knows she won't fit in, so she starts over. 

That sharp, painful pin – familiar.

The wire brush as it scrapes down her back – familiar. Homey. She can feel dullness creep in. But she doesn't feel any safer. Just less like she's in the room. She still needs as much oxygen as everyone else but she's less corporeal – a dark bird with no needs, only desires. And then with no desires only fears. And then with no fears, only a fierce, deeply anchored need for self-protection that she no longer believes she'll get. 

She's right. And she knows it. 

Future-seeing bird, fortuneteller bird, black bird who used to be blue. Full of iridescence. I mourn you and I mourn your feathers. I mourn what's happened to them. I'm sorry for all those choices I made, but I look back and every single one of them seems like a fait accompli. How could I have chosen anything different? 

I used to feel filled with anger but even that shore feels distant now.

I'm unmoored. Unrecognizable to myself and I don't know if that's an indication of numbness or peace. But I'm worried. Because it feels like the kind of clean slate nothing will stick to, ever again.

This came out when I gave my body voice inside Body Writers, my weekly Somatic Writing Circle.

Explore giving your body a voice for deep release and healing here.