My past seems fuzzy in the breeze,

as I am waiting for my eyes to adjust to the wind and the swirls of blood in my head,

for time has faded to something soft and fluorescent,

and the cords around my wrists bring no less shake to my hands,

some moments I remember some I forget, 

but sometimes I’m alone and call myself alive,

like my brain hasn’t shattered,

to pieces in the waves,

because the worry in my brain has shown,

but the pain is still there and has never left,

the pain of the shake and the pain of the headache,

the letters all jumbled up and the pages numbered wrong on a book,

as the moment I realize I was so close to nothing appears in plain sight,

and my synapses are loud, but I am dead silent,

and sometimes I’m alone and call myself alive. 

-EB Erin Brown 10/13/23

- Erin Brown


Mindless, mindless, nothing is all you ever are. What’s 60+60 when you are 50+50. Only half of what your mind should know. What is it like being half shown, only half a person, half a thing, half a mind, only half. What is the point when you are only half of everything everyone else has. What if I can only do 50%, what if I can only speak 50%? What if I can only rationally make up 50%, 50% of what you have, 50% of not having the time, 50% too late, and maybe even 60 too far gone. Maybe tomorrow it will be 30, after that it will be 20, the day after that it will be 10. I’m lucky enough to be 50%. Lucky enough to stand here and say that I have 50% of what you have, I have 50% acknowledgement, 50% the words, and I am lucky to say that I’m 50%. 50% will hinder my every movement, my every thought so who are you when you’re 50% and I am not enough. 

-EB

my hand feels useless,

one I never operate,

it lays patently,

for my right hand does all the work,

and my hand softens for it is tired,

so tired of being stuck as pointless,

so tired it cannot even stand,

for the left side does nothing,

nothing at all,

no words to write,

or things to elevate,

as it is stuck being the useless one,

it waits patiently,

as it is being seen,

sculpted by the right hand,

never to be unseen.

-EB

as the blood red stains your mouth,

and the peeling breaks your skin,

the first and only thing breaks in,

as the pores of your skin unravel,

and your teeth become thin,

no longer white but cherry,

breaking from within,

the sourness of your grief,

is far down within,

as the ache of your rotting gums,

feels like a void,

that is never filled in, 

as it bleeds out,

a pomegranate scent,

and a blood like red.

-EB