If it weren’t for my fingers
Sliding back and forth over the grooves
In the arm rest
I would not even know I were here.
Only when I noticed what my hand was doing
That it was my body that was moving
Did I realize that I was infact still alive.
I had been staring at a spider web
as it sat in the sun
And a butterfly
flew up and around and around it
For what could have been minutes or hours or none.
I will never know.
Dissociative states can either be manic
Or sleepwalking half dead
I’m not sure which I dislike more
Each brings it’s own variety of dread.
Both are a sentence I wish I did not have to live with.
So to tell me ” It isn’t what happened to you, it’s what you do with it,”
well that is just bullshit.
There is nothing TO do ABOUT it.
It IS it.
And that’s all their really is.