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.