THIS ONE THING

She waits until they’re all asleep  
To set up in the living room-  

The laptop, the good headphones, and  
The colored purple punch balloon,  
 
And of course a couple boxes  
Of things that go clankety-clank.  
 
As she practices trading breaths  
With each deep exhale of the tank,  
 
Her slowed down, fuzzy, deepened voice  
And newly-liberated pens  
 
Relate to the flies on the wall  
Her tale, knowing it all makes sense,  
 
But not, with sadness, she has found  
To each and every trusted one.  
 
Some in their darkness cannot see  
How scraped and raw and tightly sprung  
 
She is before this ritual,  
How soft and fresh, composed and free  
 
Her muscles, bones and salvaged mind-  
Come morning- all will be.  
 
Her whole life she has been prescribed  
A multitude of magic cures  
 
That may work for most people, true,  
But only this one thing is hers.