anniversary: a poem


it’s not easy to dream,
on a pillow drenched,
by the storm inside of me,
as scenes and memories,
form a supercut,
like the racing of pain,
back through my veins,
as i do the most difficult task,
one year after trauma,
i remember.
droplets of galaxy,
fall from the ceiling,
into my dry eyes,
i see from above,
the view of the sky,
i remember how it felt to come so close,
to the end,
so close, that i could taste the salt spray,
of the dark ocean,
i felt was my inevitability,
the willingness to succumb,
to the darkness which,
tore at me.
each day i breathe i am haunted by the frozen ground behind me,
in the shadow cast by my ever-expanding memory,
a night i tried to forget,
but at every corner,
in every conflict,
in every relapse,
in every new memory,
on every breath,
i will taste the blood in my mouth,
from the injury,
which, even after healing,
still remains with residual bleeding.
but i am not defined by a buried memory,
one i pieced as well as i could,
then shelved,
one that i unearth to learn from,
whenever i feel my path,
is leading,
i’m scared,
of feeling alone enough,
of feeling not enough,
to fall beyond return,
but that will not happen,
because i am celebrating today,
my eyes slowly open,
on a new day,
surrounded by life,
surrounded by love,
still figuring out the great problem,
of the life i did not take away,
and i feel comfort in this,
being the place i stay.

I am here.
my eyes open, 
on a morning,
three-hundred and sixty-five days later,
and i find it’s hard to breathe,
i’m overwhelmed by unnamed emotion,
i’m scared of possibility,
but i’m here to see it all,
happy anniversary.

“six months”- a poem

The day i sent these five books in,
Five years of pain,
Suddenly ceased.
I was in a bubble,
An air pocket,
At the bottom of the ocean,
Creating my own space,
Demanding that the depths of my existence,
Let me breathe,
And so I did,

There i was,
A sliver of silver, wiped clean of its tarnish,
Still scratched,
But exposed, in a new way.

In these six months,
The fire still burned,
Frost moved in,
Rain cleared the slate,
The sun dried the stone,
And in the cracks,
Blooms and fields were born.

Growth was a journey,
To take my pieces,
Melt them down,
And cast them in a new shape.

Now I see,
The cycle holds true,
With much less severity.

I chose life.

And as I approach the anniversary,
Of trauma,
I don’t feel dread,
I feel—

Or at least completely uncertain,
Of what lies ahead of me.

-thomas jackson