Scream

Scream

Outside my window

the white sky is marbled 

with veins of charcoal

A winter sky in April

From far away

whispered thoughts

drift over the stillness of my body

Startled by the sound of my name being called

I listen intently

holding my breath

until I finally realize it is my own voice calling

Clamping my mouth tightly closed

I breathe purposefully through my nose

in 2,3,4

out 2,3,4,5

until the urge to scream disappears

Droplets of rain occasionally tap the window

as the lyrics to a song by The Clash plays in my head

on repeat...

"Should I stay or should I go
Should I stay or should I go now?"

The rhythm is more upbeat than I feel

I feel 

nothing

but still the question

without a clear answer

So I wait...

continuing to breathe

in 2,3,4,5

out, 2,3,4,5,6,7

I reach for my phone

find your number

wait for the sound

Of your voice 

and eventually 

I scream...

Angela Minard 2016©

Purgatory

Purgatory

When I was a child

 I would play the "breath holding" game with myself

It wasn't the kind of 

"breath holding to gain attention from parents" game

It was simply a challenge

How long could I deprive myself of air?

 life?

The strangest thing is that the longer you hold your breath

the more alive you feel

The heart beats even louder and more ferociously

The body warms and trembles to stay alive

until eventually the mouth flies open

like an ugly, gasping Piranah

an exhale that feels like failure

worn like shame...

As I grew up

breath holding evolved into food withholding

It was simply a challenge

How long could I deprive myself of food?

Long enough for my heart to beat erratically

for my muscles to cramp

 and to shiver all day

even in the summer

Feeling alive...

this slow act of suicide

How long could I press my fingers into my flesh

before I would feel the pain?

the belly I loathed dotted with perfect thumb sized bruises

Where is this poem leading?

to life?

death?

or somewhere

in between...

Angela Minard 2016©

Artwork~ "Hungry" by Leslie Ann O'Dell

Tiny Package

Tiny Package

I remember

this

beautiful containment

a neat and tiny package

buzzing numbness

almost like being alive

almost...

I'm tired of my own voice

messy and overflowing

spilling like sticky blood

 never to be washed away

closing my eyes

I reach my stained hands toward you

but I still see her

too much to hold

too much to love

I remember

this

beautiful containment... 

Angela Minard 2016©