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  • Support Group

    Support Group

    We call it “checking in”: an innocuous term used when emailing your boss
    about a deadline or signing your name and appointment time,

    but checking in here is an altogether different brand, and maybe it needs
    to sound bland to steady my trembling hands as I brace against vulnerability.

    Drawing back the veil, dust motes from the folds tumble out in morning light.

    Exposure. Not like the first time I let a lover observe the folds and curves
    I uncovered as they surged with the rippling shudders of revelation,

    but more like the last time a friend caught sight of my pharmacy labels “Do not operate heavy
    machinery” resting against so many empty, plastic bottom shelf bottles in the waste bin.


    Prevarications evaporate on my tongue as the recognition of disease
    dawns in the mirror before me; biting her tongue, nodding--

    But in this circle, the rough clench that crushes my blown glass confessions
    into fragments never comes, but instead the gentlest tips of fingers trace the edges

    and take my hand as I step onto the wasteland of my regret,
    the concrete memories of a lover I can’t forget,

    and as I heave the wrought iron weight of impermanence,
    they swish their pom poms until the sound of plastic ribbons rings of deliverance.

    Our community is neither panacea nor hope of redress, but a paean to the witness:
    leaning forward; “Clear!” then a shock while they watch for eyes fluttering, a stir in the silence-

    Even if I never open my eyes, they’ll join me in the jail I’m trapped inside,
    and if we can’t pull the bars aside, if devastation burns like a dying sun,

    if time douses the nimbus of being young,
    this circle will be my unutterable balm, my marrow, my psalm of absolution.
    Last edited by feltlikevelvet; 06-01-2016, 05:13 PM.
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