Spoons

I’ve never had enough spoons. 

To dig my way out of any deficit or even to fill a glass half full.

To ferry the mystic medicinal magic of chicken soup for the battered soul. 

And I’ve never had enough time. 

Even across decades of a life spent wandering 

while wondering how much time served in this body equates to freedom to simply be.

And I’ve never had enough smiles. 

The consequences of a lifetime of giving them away to men whose greedy eyes slip through grinning lies as they tell you how beautiful you’d be if you just gave them one. 

Even as cerebral cyanid convinces you the only one who’s ever found you beautiful is

your mother. 

I’ve never had enough presence of mind.

The sweet incense of my burnout feeds the intoxication of subjugation on which they feast,

while I swallow my daily Dilaudid dose of disassociation 

so I don’t shatter into a million tiny disappointments instead of just one big one. 

I’ve never had enough inner peace. 

The echoes of my self-loathing snake across the thin membrane of an identity that’s been fragile since birth,

while chaos from a timeline of trauma seeps into the sheets like he did

when his roaming hands made demands across my paralyzed skin.

And while he was preying I was praying

I could pretend he only did it because he liked me a little too much 

But as I long for this cavern of empty to be filled with

everything, 

something, 

anything

I drown in the riptide of tears cried during the pedicide of my inner child. 

And day in and day out, as I grasp for

everything, 

something,

anything 

I think I’ve finally had enough.