the Sedation — First Draft

Feelings used to spill out 
without a leash
without the reins 
of self-conscious embarrassment
Heartbreak — spilling
What is a word for the disappointment 
that one feels when trusting blindly in the goodness of life
only to see it dashed against the sharp stones?
The look in the eyes of a dog who loves her owner
but is being beaten by him even as she greets him with joy.
Betrayal simultaneous with her body’s wagging blind love.

When you were three, 
it was having your smiley cookie break 
as it hit the tarred parking lot,
crumbled like your joy 
the perfect moment fallen, as flat and broken 
as that icing smile.
The perfect passing tragedies — 
your fallen ice cream cone,
not getting your turn first on your birthday.
Now, now — frustration
it’s an electric brain storm 
that we sedate — oh, so well — so no one will know:
a daily administrative desk job,
substantial and bland as your Degree in not remembering
what dreams of discovering new dinosaurs
and quests fulfilled used to look like.
To say “office manager of a firm” is easier
to reassure your loved ones of “ok-ness”
than saying 
“This smile has been broken”
Now, now this sedation is an excuse 
for your current good life choices 
— passionless — 
but an evasion from vestiges of deeper questions.
Here is my door — 
See how orderly my patio and mailbox are.
See how my garden grows.
Evade them from the choking weeds and rocky soil,
so they won’t judge how the Sower’s seeds 
fail to deliver.

You used to be a dreamer, the potential heroine of your village
all confidences and admiration given to your saintly talents
an award-winning speller, artist, scientist, and poet
transcending those gold stars — 
Now, now every remotely beautiful thought
a balloon that starts to fill
with your life breath
and deflates as rapidly as your efforts.

I have finished grieving
so over it
so over grieving for the theology of what was supposed to be
the American Catholic dream of infinite ever-expanding Beauty
Now, now I’m grabbing as much of his skin as I can — 
holding on to what?
When i wasn’t jaded, it was purity, beauty, truth…absolute possibility of love
now it’s evasion of pain, playing it chill 
dancing away from the fear of being ordinary
of becoming another dusty record on the shelf
beloved emotional evocation
now fondly remembered but shelved for years 
until a nostalgic memory floats to the surface
I grab on and have learned to passionately kiss in the moment
to love this technicolor moment of how he’s looking at me 
I won’t touch him back like he touches me.
His heartbreak at this world came far earlier than mine 
So you’re further along in the grieving process than I am, I tell him.
His eyes betray shards of the idealism he used to have, and still has sometimes.
I won’t touch him back like he touches me.
But still I’m condemned to hell for these sins.
These sins of frustration. Not loving to full cum in the proper rituals.
His medication won’t let him finish sexually 
or bond romantically 
like before.
My sedation won’t let me finish romantically
or bond sexually
like before.
We talk like adults as adults
about how we wish we could feel in waterfalls
without reins, like before.
Now, now we communicate our respect for one another
in not being able to go any further.
Strange bouncing bonds like electrons encircling 
some nucleus we cannot know or comprehend.
Is it what some would call 
wrestling with the Angel in the desert?

How do we wake up from this sedation?
How do we heal?

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