“No, three scoops, please. Yes, but with extra hot fudge. Whipped cream is fine. No, you can keep the cherry. Rainbow sprinkles? Excellent!”

It arrived in a glass of familiar curvature; an upturned dress, hemmed at the rim.

Another weekend not yet ended. Where do they go?

A sundae still to be finished.

she paces and it overwhelms my mind

she paces and I cannot prevent it

she paces over and over through time

she paces, standard blue-light screen, face lit

sand washed bamboo floors,

under her soft feet

suede slippers in sky

plying secrets from

slats supple, yet firm

where her tensed toes meet

she paces, paces nothing will stop her

back and forth

forth and back

over endless cracks

on the stomped-on boards

of our humble floors

she paces and I cannot stop her mind

she paces, for she simply cannot sit

she paces, fixed on her hand-held lifeline

she paces and nothing can control it

© J.A. Smith 2020

#anxiety #marriedlife #happywifehappylife #writethroughthemadness #poetry #newpoetry #LGBTQ #queercouples

i'm not quite sure

what it is,

exactly,

but it's something old

it's a feeling inside

that's crawling and alive

sleeping in the grass

and breathing in smoke

quick, take another breath in

feel alive as the smoke inside

covers your lungs in a deep fog

your eyes start to water with the effort to breathe

it's something else, you see,

the breathing in the smoke

it's the breathing of life

something else, it is

the tears begin to fall, one by one

each a marker of the roads you've walked

each a cry for help in a sea of loneliness

and the smoke, it takes your lungs

inhale, heavy exhale, something else

the smoke is killing you

it's killing me

as i cry for help in a sea of loneliness

i'm not quite sure

what it is,

exactly,

but it's something old

“What’s that?”

The little wooden mask sat on top of a cheap IKEA side table. An odd assortment of baubles - necklaces, charms, cheap plastic flower leis, and the like - hung about its head and obscured its carved features. In front of it sat a magpie’s nest of offerings - subway stubs, cereal box prizes, pieces of sea glass, bobbleheads, skiball tokens, spider rings, and leftover change. Three candles illuminated the shrine like a tiny temple ensconced in junk.

“His name is Ku.” His lone priestess said solemnly.

The concerned college roommate raised an eyebrow. “And what are you doing with him?”

“He’s my tiki god.”

“Your what?”

“My tiki god. These are his offerings. It’s finals week.” she added.

“You study your ass off and you’re setting out tiki offerings?”

Adding three ropes of candy to the collection she bowed and touched the bulbous, ugly nose. “Ku helps.”

“So he’s like what, a god of wisdom?”

“War, but he’s reforming.”

“You’re not serious, right?”

Shrugging, the priestess continued to sit and meditate in front of her altar.

Courtney flounced away with a scoff, leaving the small room for the shared kitchen. She had meticulously cleaned and spot-checked everything for her friends coming over that evening. Sure, it was finals week - but who cared? She’d studied enough.

As she yanked open the fridge to check for potential hor’dourves she spied the small strip of notepaper held up by a magnetized bunny. The grocery list for the week included the usual - milk, pasta, hot pockets, granola, apples, sandwich meat, bread, and...what?

Closing the door, she squinted to make out the scribble at the bottom of the list. “Hey...Tanya?”

No answer.

It looked like it said “sacrificial goat hearts” but that couldn’t be right, could it? She shot another worried glance down the hall. Still no movement from Tanya, who supposedly sat in front of her altar praying for A’s. Snorting, she yanked the fridge open again and shook her head. What a prank. Like her little altar offerings really included bloody organs over plastic and artificial sweeteners.

Courtney’s friends arrived in a steady trickle between seven and eight that evening. They were loud, as was their music, and they stayed up past one in the morning when campus security arrived due to neighboring complaints. Tanya’s bedroom door remained shut all evening. Courtney forgot she had wanted to study, however she figured it wouldn’t matter anyway. Tanya always got good grades, with or without supernatural interference.

~

The following morning Courtney dragged herself to the fridge again, yanking it open and digging around for the last container of creamer for her coffee. With a yawn she nudged the door shut and noticed a small red line on the grocery list.

The word “goat” had been crossed out and replaced with the word “virgin” in bright red ink.

Scoffing again, Courtney went back to the coffee maker and dressed up her morning Joe in a clean white suit of milk and sugar. As she finished she turned to place the creamer back in the fridge and collided with Tanya.

“Oh - good morning.” She stumbled backwards, nearly tipping her mug.

Tanya’s bloodshot eyes stared back at her. “Morning.” she said tonelessly.

“Want some coffee? There’s a fresh pot.”

“No.” Reaching past her, Tanya pulled out a small bottle of vitamins from the cupboard overhead and then shrank back. Without another word she exited the kitchen and trotted back towards her room.

Taking a deep breath, Courtney returned the creamer to the fridge and yanked the grocery list off it. She had no patience for Tanya’s passive aggressive games. As she tossed the list in the trash she picked up her coffee mug and headed for the couch, taking a sip.

~

The police arrived at the apartment an hour later, along with the ambulance. Two kind looking orderlies hefted Courtney’s body out on a stretcher, after covering it with a blanket. Nothing seemed amiss, but somehow Courtney’s heart had stopped and no one had managed to revive her after her roommate called it in. They collected her body as the police officers collected Tanya’s statement.

One of the officers looked past Tanya to her bedroom, where her little Ikea-mounted altar sat. “That’s an interesting set up you have. Who’s that guy?”

Emotionless, she looked back at her tiki. “That’s Ku.”

“Ah. God for good grades?”

“War,” she said with a curiously pleased expression. “But he’s reforming.”

"You're too young to be tired."

Yes, I am. And yet here I am, tired. Tired of life, tired of myself, and tired of the world I live in. Every day I fight this battle in my head and every day I seemingly lose. So for me to say I'm tired is me barely admitting my loss. So don't tell me I shouldn't be tired until you live in my head and deal with the thoughts I have to deal with. Don't talk about things you don't understand.

Cancer. What a scary word, huh?

Hearing it at 28. Surprising, ya know?

Lucky. What a thankful word. Why?

Cause that’s me.

I have cancer at 28 years old and

I’m still so fucking lucky.

About 5 years ago, I noticed how at 23 years old that the growing pains in my limbs were a little strange. The ways my hands throb. The way my feet ache. The way my bones beg for a break.

Dramatic. Dramatic. Dramatic. Huh?

Growing pains at 28? Unlikely. Ya know?

Neglect. What a terrible way to treat my body. Why?

Cause that’s all I was made to believe I was by many of the people closest to me. Hell, even doctors. Just suck it up, Meghan. You’re fine. You’re just stressed out about nothing and it’s your sensitive emotional personality that’s causing this pain. The doctors said so. What a mystery, they say. Best friends* gave up or walked out. A boyfriend* tiptoed right behind them.

This is why people leave, Meghan. You are too much. You are not in pain. You’ve made it up. You are totally insane. That’s what I’d say to myself. How could I not listen? The same body screaming at me for Tylenol PMs and ice packs to numb limbs had a brain scoffing at the embarrassing weakness I was giving into.

A few years passed. Sure, I went to routine physicals and normal therapy but I never mentioned any of the pain again. Why would I? This was all in my head.

Then January of this year, for the first time, I was actually given accurate information about my bloodwork after a routine physical. (Something previous bloodwork also showed—prior to being severe—but doctors failed to acknowledge). It didn’t look right. It looked like, maybe I should do more.

Thyroid. Fucked up. Okay okay. That’s fine. Doctors forgot to actually call to diagnose me so, realizing these bloodwork numbers were a little bit off the charts (as I viewed on my own online), I make my own way to a specialist. Autoimmune disease. Hashimoto’s. Thyroid tripled in size (called a goiter). Okay okay. That’s fine.

Relief, huh? 5 years in the making and at least maybe this explains a little bit. I hear myself thinking maybe it wasn’t in your head. But ya know, still doesn’t mean I wasn’t dramatic or milking it.

Finally. A word I said with happiness I now knew what was wrong.

28 years old. Not so bad, only a few years not knowing. It’s fine.

Beginning. The real word I should have said

cause now I Couldn’t swallow anymore. Voice, a little raspy. Singing (and rapping) in the car, not as easy. Specialist says, let’s check out the goiter. See what’s going on. Ultrasound.

A standard ultrasound takes approximately 10 photos at most. Two radiologists and a doctor at Brigham & Women’s spent an hour taking 99 on me. Sympathy reeked from the eyes of the pretty, young, chestnut colored haired doctor.

I know somethings wrong but what, maybe I need to up medication? I said “So am I all set?,” pretty cheery. I prefer speaking like I’m sure sunshine would. I knew, though, her voice spoke like a heavy rain, a downpour—the kind that might or might not start a flood.

Still, with compassion, she said, “I’m worried about a few nodules.” She didn’t have to say what it looked like. Her eyes said it all. How could she hold that back? I’m 28 years old, seemingly healthy, and joking with radiologist when she came in. I don’t get cancer.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. But it’s okay. Huh? Yes. I promise.

A biopsy showed two very large malignant nodules on my thyroid. Perhaps a year or two of growing. So now I set up for surgery. I mean, I’ll really be fine. Totally. Sure, maybe there’s more. The end result last time was just the beginning. So we will see what’s next but I’m up to live and I’ll fight to get to do it. See, the difference now is: my heart is not angry with my mind anymore and my mind has asked my body for forgiveness. Without hesitation, my body accepts.

So, yes. I have cancer. A very curable kind. Should it have spread, I’ll know soon enough and I’ll beat that too. Cause I will live a normal life. Cancer-free. And I’ll do it with the people that never left and the new ones that want so much to stay and for me to stay too.

Pity party? Maybe. Woe is me? If that’s what you wanna call it. Release. That’s what I call it.

Because besides the physical lumps, I have trapped my voice and my feelings for years—it’s time I let the devastated, heartbroken endured lump in my throat heal. It’s time I remember I never deserved to be neglected: by anyone, by friends, by doctors, and even by my own mind.

So please, if you don’t feel right—you’re not wrong. You know your body. Do you know exactly what’s wrong? Not always. But get checked. Please. If you’re written off as a mystery or chalked up to your mental state? Time for a second opinion. Then a third. And, hell, a fourth. Cause I’ve been there. And look? Now I’m here.

I don’t know what will happen. Not technically. But I know what has. And I know how I am now. For the first time. And even if it’s a cancer patient, it’s a young lady with a much longer, fulfilling life left to live.

It’s Meghan. It always has been.

Thank you to my family, friends, coworkers, and few others that stayed by my side and continue to. I love you. Endlessly. Don’t worry, I got this.

*None of which ever left.

P.S. Dayo, Kairos, and Halia too.