Chronic illness, poetry

A Slow Hollow

It’s slow. Agonizingly slow.

With each moment it grows more

and more swollen.

Closing my throat.

Digging my nails into my neck

trying to catch one breath.

Hours pass and I don’t want to

keep fighting for survival.

I can’t get rid of the poison.

Every heart beat feeds it.

The longer I continue to live

the longer it has to find more ways for me

to suffer.

Who could ever love this reality?

To exist next to it.

Who would choose to suffer

because I had no choice?

It eats me.

Slowly consuming me.

Seven years, what is left of me?

It makes me into nothing.

I’m wasting away, unable to

choose my existence.

I exist as it wants me to,


Christianity, Chronic illness, poetry

I’m Just Fine (My First Rap)

People ask me “Why you don’t talk” all the time.

Well here’s your damn answer,

My body’s decaying, it’s breaking.

But no one gives two craps unless it’s cancer.

All I do stare up at ceilings

Trying to ignore the fact that my skin keeps peeling. Off

Damn Doctors, they insult me 

It’s all in my brain, they say.

Thanks Doc,

Slam the car door, mom asks those three words,

“How are you?”

My mouth is under padlock.

She just wants to hear that 

I’m still as strong not easy to knock.

Even if every words a lie.


I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.

It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.

Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,

I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.

I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.

I’m, just, fine.


There’s not light, I look at the time. I have a realization,

The medication can’t stop the PTSD or depression, my silence is a confession, open your eyes and make a correction on how you see me before I make a stupid decision that will make you learn your lesson. 

See me. I’m weaker than you think, don’t blink, you might miss it. Terrified of the what if’s the worlds darkest screw it’s.

You tell me I can’t live this way, I’m lazy and I never move from where I lay. 

No really? you think I wanted this? What about all the things I miss? Really?

This is my body, not me. If pain wasn’t in the damn way I would runaway, stand in line just because this mother could, I would dance all night pretending this white girl was from the hood. Only if I could. 

You ask me with that fake voice, “Girl, How are you!?” 

And so the conversation goes…


I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
What should I say? You all ready know that the pain is chronic, that I have PTSD and I can’t love myself, that I dig so far into my body that bleed, it’s ironic.

Can’t be my own lover so I make myself uglier.

You know that. But say it out loud, you run faster then a freaking street rat. 

So I’m fine. Cuz it’s crime to check box other.

Mother always says to treat others how you want to be treated so I show compassion.

Even after you ask me that question in poor fashion. Because no should be alone.

Even if love was never shown. In the first place.

So I get another text, the same stupid question.

As if I could describe with the words in my possession. So I hold up a mirror and have them ask themselves. Thats all people have wanted since I was twelve.



I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
If the pain would go, my heart could show, and all this loneliness would be just a memory. But just because that’s what it should be doesn’t mean it could be.


What A Broken Love We Have

I find myself in the same situation so many times. Misunderstood by my dad and his side of the family. Then I am the enemy when I try to explain and my mother is to blame, since she is the only one who raised me. 

Sophomore year was emotional. Not only was I dealing with health issues but also my fathers drug abuse. After I had enough of my life being in danger in the car one too many times, I went to my grandmother. I told her how he was struggling with addiction and driving under the influence with me in the car. How we went into on coming traffic and how I had to steer for him on 30 min or more drives. She did nothing, the only words she said to me was,”You are lucky to have a father.” The phase that my dad would use to excuse his actions. 

My father and I drive home. I was lucky enough to have my permit at the time so I could drive him home. I had had enough so I uttered,”Dad, it’s me or the pills.” He   Looked over at me while I was driving anxiously and flatly said to me,”I am not throwing away my pills.” Heartbroken I replied,”Okay.”

After I got home, I told him to not bother speaking to me until he got clean. What I didn’t expect was that it would take him a year or the blame I got from my grandmother and my aunt. Knowing everything, I was to blame. I was wrong to stay away. Even though he did clean up and now we have a relationship again. I am still a terrible daughter and granddaughter. They still don’t like my mother even though they have never put effort into taking care of me. Even though they have never taken an interest in anything I have done or have helped with my medical care. We have asked for money and they bitterly obliged. 

They love me when I sit quietly. But I have illnesses that are constantly screaming. I will not be walked over because I was raised by “lower class.” I will not take anyone seriously when they try to give me “treatments” when they don’t care enough to ask about or research the illnesses that I have. I will not take your words when it has to be said through others because you won’t tell me yourself. We pride ourselves on being family but we don’t even love each other enough to care about each other. Let’s stop pretending that our family is doing well. I am willing to fix what we can but first we need to acknowledge the truth and be honest. 

Chronic illness

The Gone Me

Part of me wishes that all of this never happened to me. At the same time, I know for a fact that I would not be where I am with God with out the bad things I have endured and am still enduring. I have seen myself without God and I was absolutely disgusting. He knew that the only way that I would come to him was allowing chronic illness and pain to be a constant thorn in my side. I am so happy that he did it so early in my lifetime so that I would know him earlier and have the possibility of getting to know him and grow through out a whole lifetime. Yes there are parts of me that are gone that I wish I could have back, like my active side and the part of me that could be outside for hours. The part of me that could stay up all night and all day to get things done, and the part of me that could make 3 different plans with 3 different people in one day. But I have to sacrifice those and the evil, sinful parts that thought it was okay to be sexually explicit, that it was okay to lie to and hit my mom just because I could, and the parts that thought it was okay to lie to and hurt people just because I could or because I didn’t like them. I have to sacrifice both because they go hand in hand. Once I did, God made a way for me to not go backwards. I’m chronically ill and I believe and fear the Lord. They go hand in hand. He’s not punishing me for my sin, that’s not what I’m saying. He’s allowed my situation to become a way of honoring him. And God has made it so that there is no way I could choose to go backwards. My life now is a million times better then it was. How could I go back?


False Negatives

d6cc4f19baebd07bb8719ef1108a629eIt’s not about the gush of blood

flushing from my nose.

But about the burst freed vein,

the plumbing that needs gutting.


The body that needs to be dissected,

torn into to be experienced.

To see the infected chest cartilage

suffocating my lungs with salt.


The false negatives refusing

to expose her snapping discs.

The ankles filled

with yesterday’s mistakes.


Breasts constantly being cut into,

Stabbed, leaving only stretch marks.

Ovaries with homemade bombs

playing minefield with the future.


You’re going to need to cut me,

split me to find my guilt.

Study my insides for truth

but if not death, take it at my word.


Created To Contradict

625ef772ce6caae579f36a8e8094fe8dThere is no such thing as standing still. I am constantly turning, involuntarily twitching, and painfully shaking. Even when those cease, being Still is ruined by my need for breathing. Still is the enemy. My entire being was created to contradict it. depression, anxiety, and pain to last my life. And all through out my life I was told to be still. They thought it would give me peace, yet all it did was drive me into my mind. Into the chaos of to much love, to much depth, to much lies, and too much pain. Nothing will ever truly be still, they should have said calm. There can be a calm on my body or in the ocean. It can give the possibility of some peace. At least a peace of mind. I wish that it was the term to describe the way I speak. But people usually use the word aggressive or assertive. I am described and categorized as blunt. Something that hits you and knocks the wind out of your lungs. Unpleasant. How can I be calm, how can I be still? I get lonely being the way I am or being who I am. People don’t see past my protection because its made out of disaster. I’m starting to get tired. I’m not sure tired equals calm but I’ll take the calm over the chaos. I just can’t take the loneliness.


I feel like I’m constantly trying to keep myself from drowning. Failing at keeping my head above the waterline. I’m unable to find the right combination of muscles to keep me swimming. I can’t even float on my back without sinking. The miracle is that even though I know I’m drowning, I remain calm and convinced that I’m not going to die. Even with the unknown miles below and beside me, my body recognizes it all. It’s even in my home. Home is where the hurt is, home is where I’m allowed to feel it. It doesn’t matter how dark the water turns or how thick the air gets. I keep fighting, sinking. Many times I have tried to just sink to the bottom. To fill up my lungs with water and have that be the end but I can’t drown until it’s time. I can’t miss the sunsets and star light. I can’t give up hope that one day I’ll be okay.

The Waterline