September Coffee House

Lost Dimensions of You

The doctor recommends at least an hour of sunlight a day.
They say that it may have prevented what happened to you.
But they’re just guessing.
You were outside from dawn to dusk all your life,
Soaking in the light.
Darkness still overtook.
A picked wildflower.
Falling petals, you are losing dimensions.
You used to glow and grow,
Until those clammy hands caressed your lovely stem,
Sending a vine up your spine,
Draining your light.
You began to struggle,
Reaching for help with thorns extended.

Daily tasks became too much.
So you sank into the couch like a void,
Hating me more every time I left.
I know you live in agony,
But I shouldn’t have had to hold your hand
Just so you wouldn’t end your life.
I shouldn’t have had to be called names,
Shoved against the wall,
Spit on my face from your screeching.
Just for not finishing my Zucchini.
And I can remember the seven times I ran away from home–
No. The house.
And you told me to go to Hell the eighth time.
So I obeyed and I stayed.
And my feet still ache
From the egg shells I stepped on trying to please you,
The eggs you shattered.

You were supposed to be taking care of me.
I held you,
A flower wilting in my arms.
You always seemed to vie for my tears,
Hungrily guzzling them down,
But they never could hydrate you into the flower you once were.
And you pulled me close,
Melting me against your chest with the fire of your toxicity.
Tears to steam,
Rosy skin to scales,
Kind heart morphing,
Mixing and swirling together in brutal ways.
And for years, we were one in the same.

But who are you? I don’t feel like I know you.
They tell me you were great before it happened.
A wildflower, swaying in the wind,
Moving and grooving to your very own song.
But the vine fed on your brain,
And you slipped and slid from this dimension.
I could see you still, but you were not you.
As a young child, I remember you were two dimensional.
You were like a painting,
Though I don’t think a painting stings like that did,
An abrasive slap across the face.
And you have since become even less.

And anyone else would think you are just fine at first glance,
But I can see you glowing at the edges,
The outline of your body shaking,
As if your atoms are unbounded–
A bomb.
You always erupted cataclysmically so,
And your atoms swung like knives.
But you never did quite get all of them back.
Part of a person,
You have been seen again,
But never known.

And Mom–
Mom, I think I miss you.
I think I miss someone I never really met,
Someone I would have been proud to know.
And Mom–
I love you.
I love you when I see your mother in the reflection of your glassy eyes,
A woman who was so overtaken with the vine herself,
That she could not hold a conversation.
I love you even when you explode with fury,
And especially when you’re happy, almost a whole person,
Wonderful and bright!
When you’re funny, creative, ambitious, and you really like puns.

And I’m sorry I said all those mean things about you earlier,
You’re so strong,
The least I can do is dodge a plate and not complain.
At least you made zuchinni.
Please let me hold your head as you cry.
I’m sorry I left home.
I’ll come back.
I’ll be just like you again if that will make you happy.
I’m sorry
I’m so sorry.
Please forgive me.
Smash my head against the door
If it makes you feel better.

And I’m smothered in the shadow of the vine millions fed,
As it looms over me.
For multiple sclerosis
Is a genetic disease.

Author: Zoe Conner

I'm Zoe Conner. I'm writing on a computer named Rambo, which you should only say with a rolled r. I write because I don't want to be just another cog in the machine. I live. I write. That's all you need to know. View all posts by Zoe Conner