Veil of Smoke By Mo Mahon

The dimly lit room is full of it.
Squinting my eyes to appreciate the small flames,
The astigmatism maximizing my ability to feel,
Inhaling black smoke once suffocated.

I drift off to sleep.
Clocks are hardly present in the dreamscape.
I recall children flying around my mind,
Getting struck with a headache of my own.

The moment I realized
That I wasn’t in my realm,
I sought out water, finding a pot filler,
Allowing it to grow within an IV bag, back into me.

I am afraid to feel.
The escape I find appealing is the one where I stare at the ceiling.
Eyes open once more, awake but drunk on delusion.
The one I choose is an open book, a tub of Greek yogurt, or the act of doing.

Slowing down.
Resting now.
Allowing feeling.
Recognizing breathing.

Being aware, fearful of feeling—
Of getting hurt and retreating.
Cuticles cut.
Back burning.

I deprive myself of lovely feelings.
Is it self-harm,
Or an understanding that I must sit down?
I’d rather walk forever than get trapped in time.

How do I bear the weather when I am my own mother,
My own windows, my own covers?
Will it all stop once I allow a roof to settle down,
To turn the stove on and bear the storm together?