Another Journal Entry

                                              April 1st,  2 am

PTSD Symphonies



Lately I've been feeling like a ghost again. That hollowed out feeling, or lack of. And it's only been happening at night this time. It made me think of all the times I'd pretend for my friends while trying desperately to never let it show, never let it show, that my body would lose all it's feeling. Slipping out of rooms every now and then, off to the bathroom, a bulimic's place of worship, humanity's shit covered tomb. Trying at the futile systematic task to shove my soul back in it's body again.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. It doesn't help that I have her eyes, and mirrors don't lie.




I see my grandma later that afternoon.
And we laughed until the muscles in our mouths ran weak, bleeding humor dry, the rare moments I tuck my overworked tongue in for sleep.
"You look tired", she said and I asked her what she meant.
"I don't know, I can see it in your eyes."
So I read her what I wrote about the times I turn into a ghost.
How it happens when I'm driving or now as she listened while I spoke.
"I'm not laughing because it's funny" and I tell her that I know.
I'm laughing because- don't you realize that that's a poem that you wrote?"


I tell her that I know.