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I’m dead with dying
There is an eye I refuse to catch
I was born with knowing
I look and I listen and I discern
I know
You’ve caught my eye
I’m not God
But I know
Tell me everything
The bile and the filth and the worst, pour it
All that will be left will be left behind
Listen to my knowing
Let me catch your eye
My knowing is a reflection
There’s no dream I can’t decipher
I simply know
You tell me what’s the matter
And that’s what’s the matter
A reflection
through kinder eyes than you can’t bear to see
This is my knowing
I was born in January
I am dead with dying
There’s an eye I refuse to catch
It’s the eye of a child
Who won’t let me see
Something terrible happened
Something awful and humiliating
Something that drained my blood from my face my screams from my throat my heart from my chest and
Something that puddled my potty down my leg and between my toes
Something terrible
And I don’t know
Something terrible
And I don’t know
Hollow now
I won’t catch my blue eye that eyes me in the mirror
I was a child born dead with knowing
It was January
It was cold something terrible
Something terrible
And I don’t know
I feel a bubble
and I know
I have an ulcer
in the space
between my upper and lower
jaws
A boy told me
and seduced me
yesterday
with his diagnosis
that I probably had
a patellar femoral articulation
injury in my knee
My first day
volunteering
and I was already bleeding
under my thumb
from the separation of the skin
and nail
And I wonder
if anticipatory pain
is the same
as knowing pain
Inaudible
I know
In their voices
I know
A sad, fierce look in their eyes
I know
The problem with my hobby of suffering through heartache is that I remind others of their own past relationship traumas (a saving grace is most of them are in good, healthy relationships now). I’ve finally realized when they tell me not to beat myself up, they speak from experience, not from indifference.
I see a light in their eyes, aware and remembering and I feel kinship and guilt. They know and I think they’d just as well forget.
It’s never as easy as I’m sorry.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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