I Write Poetry

Before the harrowing darkness of sleep takes her under, a brief thought came across her ambivalent mind. “ I don’t want to be his misery chick.” Afterall, who wants a woman who gets broken every other day? Who wants a woman riddled with anxiety, tainted by depression, scorched by PTSD, and who sometimes wakes up screaming, crying, inconsolable? Hallucinations which she keeps to herself of demons cradling the sad little one inside. And her thoughts? Jesus, her thoughts dark enough to make even the most hardened veteran sob. This mind, is not beautiful. Who wants to deliberately deal with misery when her purpose should be peace? Is it possible to encompass both women? Is it okay to? Would it be inauthentic to shove the dark woman in a closet, put chains on the door, and no trespassing signage when she knows who that woman in the closet really is? The dark woman didn’t choose to be this way, and it is people, dark people themselves, who birthed her.