Release from these walls

This pulse; what might it feel like

To float, shapeless mist?

Once underwater,

my reflection disappears

into flooded lungs.

Vacant grey pews eye

the altar, where we bathe the

graces of our skin.

There’s so much I tell you,

That your doubt is not your ball and chain;

It’s just stuck in a stupor,

Sloppily running into tables and the

People that live over them.

Your doubt is a loud drunk.

And I know, I know.

You don’t want to tell it that,

Because that’s not you.

I say

That I am here,

That I will leave my ears open,

My mouth shut,

And my eyes fixed

On your sound,

Enough for you to understand that

I have felt that fleshy denseness,

That sappy regret coming from the sobbing

Oak tree you always walk under to get to class,

That residual grief you carry for the predecessor

Of your own body,

Who left behind only the name

You write at the top of every test you take —

A testament to the last bit of coherence you feel you have left.

Then, why is your door still closed?

Why do you still smile at me when you don’t need to?

Maybe it’s because I didn’t tell you

That it took seven years for the false premonitions to go away.

Seven years for me to stop being afraid of a drop of water

Or a foggy morning.

Seven years to listen to what my words were actually saying

Instead of using them to wash

The coming hours of my day down the drain.

Seven years to learn that the only thing

Stopping me from walking out in the rain was the innocuous wet.

Seven years to learn to love all of the things

I used to be terrified of.

Seven years to burn, burn, burn,

Scathingly extinguish that black and red and brown colored

Mass that I used to draw with crayons on construction paper

And call the root of all my problems.

I need to say to you

That it will take a long time,

And you’ll see the drink

Your doubt just ordered

And you’ll ask for whatever he’s having.

You’ll feel like the blood, sweat, and tears

You just put into trying get better were the

Sole three ingredients of your last meal.

But if you push and push and crush and boil,

You’ll see behind your mind-made façade,

See that your symptoms have vocal chords,

And, at some point, won’t be able to keep yelling,

And all you’ll have to worry about is quieting that

Occasional whisper.

You will learn to love what you fear.

Love what you fear.

Love fear.

Are you hearing me?

You will learn to love yourself.