KEIRA LYNN DODD

What I Am

 

I awaken with a jolt,
cold slab against my back,
my limbs twitching,
stitched together from unwanted parts,
but no one is here
to celebrate how alive I am.
 

Instead I am buried in silence,
a cruel way to experience birth.
 

The night is a cloak I wear
to protect me from the harsh light
of staring eyes I imagine
are waiting in the shadows.
 

I am clumsy.
The world breaks around me
into piercing screams,
and the shards cut into my flesh,
scarring my already wounded skin.
 

The noises coming from my own mouth
don’t match the thoughts throwing sparks
in my feverish brain.
 

The moon rises above.
I imagine she is my mother,
trapped in blackness,
and the stars are her tears.
Even they cannot reach me.
 

The screams are long behind me.
I find myself walking.
The moon grows small as the night
expands in all directions.  
It is no longer a cloak.
 

I am naked and lost.
 

Soon I come upon a stream.
Its icy sweetness revives my hope
until I catch a glimpse of my face—
 

I run screaming into the night,
trying to escape the terror
of what I really am.