the holes of my sweater

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struck i was, by the call to depart from violent language

number four.

right there. ilana jacqueline typed the words i couldn’t shape in a blog post.

pushing my chronic pressure points, laughing and crying and relating. i wanted to reach out and hug her.

you’re not living with chronic illness if you’re “fighting” it,
she says,
you’re not living if you’re fighting

at last, at last! proof! another being feeling trampled by the jarring, taring, crashing, shooting, breaking, trampling diction of chronic disease

the death diction dramatizing the harshness of my day to day existence,

i get it

i get why we need it
the money! the funds!

gimmie my program
my research, my daughter, my son

undo the struggle, give back the careless childhood

i get why we need it, the money, the funds

we must communicate the importance of our cause.
battle. fight. beat it. run. win. win it. kill it done.

ladies and gentlemen. these words sting me like a priest asking god to forgive the sins that washed this disease over me to begin with.

like something with an end point, changing, brewing, fixing

be it dramatic, my feeling is valid

and true.

invisible house, pounding invisible doors, withdrawing into nothing but disappointment

why haven’t we moved past this?

i was drafted to a flowering meadow disguised as a war
where sunshine looks like bloodshed and blossoms like scars
where weeds look like time bombs and…

my life is not a battlefield, and my pump is not a gun.

pardon my abandonment

tell you once i don’t want it, and change it?

i will

i’ll search for and find a treatment for this language

a treatment’s not a cure, but i’ll work out that too.

i’ll be it, not preach it

the exodus of violence in my day well lived

a most grand transcendence from fight and compete
to bold and complete

from grenade to morning dew

from trench to divot

fear to matrimony

together, in tandem
yes
yes
indeed.

read me my vows, i’ll dance and say i do
if we work together,
try
try
with all we’ve got

well, we will get as far as we get…
knowing well we met in a flowering meadow and lived our days
most of our days
not scratching and death-trapping
but
really
kindly caring

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5 thoughts on “the holes of my sweater

  1. Powerful words indeed. A friend of mine recently had a wife who died of cancer (sorry for the morbid transition) — I remember how surprised I was to hear, a few months before she passed, that she wasn’t fighting it. Usually in these cases the person fights with every ounce of strength they have. But Amy didn’t want her young children to remember her as someone who was always aggressive, always devoid of energy, and never content. She wanted her kids to remember her as a happy person. She wanted her kids to know that THEY were more deserving of her attention and affection than the inconquerable ailment. That the rogue disease in her chest wouldn’t change her from being the loveable woman they knew.

    Her story and her reason went against anything I’d ever heard before… yet it made perfect sense. Just like your message here: if you’re busy fighting, you’re not really living.

    • Thank you Scott. So much for reading and hearing this. She sounds like a very powerful woman. I really admire that kind of knowing. It’s beautiful, and indeed novel. ❤ Hugs!

  2. I have not read the link yet because my computer is being super slow. However, all this week all I feel is that I’m fighting. Not living. I know that I live so much more than I fight, but still, fighting & stalking your own body are no way to live.

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