Out Here in the Void
Out Here in the Void
I am out here in the void
not my bones
of course, not any meat left to speak of -
not the horrid messy muscle,
not the toothpick ossifications,
which held me together;
which scares not one single crow.
I am out here sending signals to you - and
none if it was your fault.
Thank you for holding me up those nights.
Thank you for laughing into my hands,
for holding my head when I hurt so bad.
I was the food one, the lack of food
won, but no one else one
ever touched me again;
never held me drowning,
never spat in my eye,
never tore my clothes, never told me
I should fuck them or die.
I am out here floating, so light like petals
and I don't fall in any wind -
and I am so light, so slight like a small child
and no one tells me that 70 lbs
is too thin. No one tells me what
to eat, or anything else for that matter.
Like we need to change your feeding tube, or we need
to give you your meds now, or it’s time for your weigh in,
or it’s time for group art therapy, or your family isn't coming
to see you. But thank you for telling me your story.
I am so glad you are ok. I always hoped you would be.
You were the special one. You had to be. God made some
small mistakes in you, but none as great as in me.
God has plans for you, that's what they all say, but
for you I really think it is true.
Have you found your soulmate?
Does she write poetry with you? I'll give you a hint -
she lives for you, so don't pretend like you can leave the earth
and come see me. You matter too much to that somebody;
the one who channels me, your friend, isn't she?
Not a lover, but a friend, she who channels me, trust her.
She knows the words to the songs you sing -
And please don't feel bad that I did not make it
because I am much, so much happier without
my archaic body of bone, muscle, and heavy hair which floated like
arsenic death pools, so much of it around my face, like spaghetti.
I couldn't bear to be anything else, but a tree limb,
just limbs up, leaves open, seeing nothing - no red.
Just out here floating, placidly dead.
Out here, floating, but happy, and thin.
*this poem is coming soon in Elisabeth's upcoming release with our press, Was It R*pe, available for preorder and launching August 3rd!
Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain – especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She is Co-Editor at Ice Floe Press and Editor in Chief at Animal Heart Press. She has several chaps and collections coming out this year including Bad Mommy / Stay Mommy at Fly on the Wall Press, Odd list Odd house Odd me at Twist It Press, and Was It R*pe, from Rhythm and Bones Press. She is a poetry mentor and proud momma to Peter and Thomas. She recently earned her MFA from Lindenwood University and received a 2018 Best of the Net Nomination from Midnight Lane Boutique and a 2018 Pushcart Nomination from Cease Cows. Follow her @ehoranpoet and ehoranpoet.com