One of the easiest ways I find to process my feelings is through poetry. With my diagnosis weighing on me, I turned to writing to help make sense of it.


It lives
out there on the street
in the cold and the rain.
It lives
in a box in the corner
in other people.
It lives
in their face
and on their lips.
It lives,
born in a room
emptied of life.
It lurks
behind every door
that is unfamiliar,
like an iceberg waiting.
It hangs
around my neck
in company and
chokes me with silence.
It lives
in every decision
future and past,
the devil in the detail.
It lives
at the end of the sentence
in the pause I think
I am supposed to fill.
It lives
in haemorrhaged words
I cannot control
or take back.
It lives
in the disembodied air
that accompanies me
where a friend might go.
It lives
in the vacuum between
your hand and my skin
after I insist you stop.
It lives,
but every day
we dig its grave
and bury it with smiles.


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