Crossing the threshold

my breathing sputters like a dying car engine

trailing off incompletely,

limping just another foot forward.

i’m folded around my baby blanket,

though I haven’t slept

with a comfort object maybe ever.

i need to feel my grandmother’s hands

while I cry.

while I cry in public.

the embarrassment swallows me

as my anger coated tears form,

hearing my throat put sound

behind words I’ve needed to

and not wanted to say.

persons in view if not earshot

from propped open doors in offices

with the option of privacy.

more private anyway,

meanwhile my eyes turn closed

against the rainbow feeling

of my safety blanket.

i’m careful not to say safe space,

and with my breathing halted

i listen to my racing heart that mimics

my hand tremors.

who knew how quickly

i’d miss the room of trainees

i equipped to read rooms for trauma.

funny,

that was a threshold once too.

fingers stretched between

lower lip and shoulder,

knee hugging my ribs,

eyes tired with emotions

and unasked for vulnerability;

needing the layer

between my pillow case and head

to soften my fall into sleep.

each swelling tear

predicts the severity of the headache

that’ll wake me;

obsidian, moonstone, lavender, sage,

and this baby blanket.

hangover cures I hope.

--

--

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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