Wild Writing 13/100

How has my own form, my own mind, been molded and shaped

and stuttered and chipped away at by everything around me?

What violent experiences does my body hold that I cannot access with words?

What memories are forever sunk in my blood and tissue?

I think about babies crying to alert those around them that

they.are.here and 

THEY HAVE NEEDS, DAMMIT

But I wonder how often I ignore my own internal screaming alarms

How the cold, airy feeling in my chest is a signal 

that I have left 

my body 

to chase 

my mind

down

winding

labyrinths

of

panic

And how a deep, nauseating belly drop is a sure sign

I think I’ve gotten something

wrong

And then there is the icy shooting down my arms and legs

into hands and feet

that says

...run,

it is not safe here

And yet I stay frozen and

time slows to a freeze frame image one after the other

the hunched shoulders,

with arms locked across my body

the way I wrap a scarf around my neck or

tie my hair up in a top knot

These shapes that fill me

and that my body takes are

just some of the ways

I’ve survived

You too, right?

Isn’t there something to the way you

curl your body up at night to block out the demons

or stretch out wide all your limbs to exhale into morning?

So much of what’s going on has me crunched and stuck

It is taking my heart immense amounts of effort to 

get my body to move fluidly again

(Prompt from David Whyte's Working Together poem. I am creating a timed piece of wild writing every day for 100 days for this year’s 100 Day Project.)