Remission

To get better does not mean it goes away.
No. It means, you have finally learned how
to jamb a fist in the pacifist. Learned to digest
before it devours. Supersonic. Metabolic.
This browser-hatched brainstorm. To write,
to wreck, to retch, to requiem – the cortex
& vent; the sap of each syllable. To say,
suleiman; you are a dagger dancing on my
jugular. Each cell is coronated as carousel
of something tectonic. Something detonating
its headwound against the hospital bed. I,
hemorrhage in rabbit sized lily ponds. Some
-thing flint-toothed is scratching at the ratchet
of a red-roomed stupor. When can we start looking
for survivors instead of heroes? Here, this body.
Hear, this body. Its electric blanket. Its box guitar.
Its scissored chords. I am 13 different kinds of
amnesia. All busted lips. A barstool turned crystal
-ball. A decade of curs locked up behind my eyes.
The technique sharpens its occam’s razor on your
fingers. The technique is to lie down and pretend as
if you were lifeless. The technique is a paradox.
Self to save or spend. This. I don’t need to pretend.

About Scherezade Siobhan

Scherezade Siobhan is a psychologist, writer and maker of the world's finest Spanish omelettes. Her writing has been published in The NewerYork, Black & Blue Writing, Cordite Poetry Review, and Fur-Linedghettos. She is the editor of Cyberhex Press & the author of Bone Tongue (Thought Catalog Books 2015). Follow her on Tumblr and Twitter.

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