‘… Not that one could despair of recovery. Rivers knew only too well how often the early stages of change or cure may mimic deterioration. Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those who cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.’ Regeneration, Pat Barker.

So this is why it feels this way,

so much what dying might look like.

Those who fear the afterlife have never

tried to recover from something,

they do not know that there is possibility

of something

beyond even this reality you know and love,

or know and hate.

Foolish girl, I have been standing here –

one foot in the past and one in the future,

thinking of myself as a voice, a tune,

singing the song of the broken into the land of the living.

An emissary for the lost ones,

as I try to lick my wounds, but no –

I am not the voice of anything, I am a garbled spirit,

a mutant being, belonging no-where but in between.

I cannot speak for those who starve

and weep and cut and wail

any more.

I am not both sick and recovered – a mysterious

creature of light and darkness – I am not

I am decayed of both states

I am the broken thing between that

belongs nowhere.

There is death in life, everyone knows it,

but no one is entirely sure where.

I know.


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