Poetry

The Art of Overcoming

the butterflies are getting wild enough to crack the birdcage of a ribcage

but it’s okay, there is an art to overcoming

stitch up the chest wounds with tiny rainbow exes
a y-incision neckline the only decoration on the Empress’s new robe

hearts will heal

hold it all together with crocheted mitten strings and duct tape
textured like lace, graceful scar tissue and bone knit back into place

skeletons will mend

make snowless angels on white marble tile so smooth it could be ice
trace the outline of each extremity while lying prone for a moment
the splayed model of a crime scene with film noir sheen

fatality is not an option

get locked up for going insane
in this sterile white world where you’re supposed to behave

mental stability is debatable

the only thing other than white walls is white paper
make loyal paper dolls and chains of little paper stars
there’s not enough bend in that stuff to make paper cranes or airplanes
but there’s a long enough paper trail to paper mâché a phoenix tail
embers once thought long extinguished, become charcoal

fingers smudged,
draw back feathered wings to reveal the night’s sky

reality is creatable

take paper scraps of past lives and paste them into place
so that at least one thing in life will stay put

run up the down escalators and slide down the up banisters
feel searing pain across the backs of legs
reminiscent of the hot metal slides of childhood

age is impermanent

let thoughts bleed into words, and graffiti them onto hallway walls
in red sharpie capital letters and sturdy radical leather boots
kicking loose the loose measures ‘n’ skipped heartbeats

stomp grape coloured oil pastels and run through a generic rental apartment
forgoing the damage deposit as a managed tradeoff against
the artistic deficit toeing the line has cost

stop balancing the budget sheets and start connecting the dots

write letters, on every ephemeral entity of everything found – boarding passes, sentimental napkins from restaurants that no longer exist
write the date of a first thirsty kiss, on the back on the wine bottle

bear witness to public confessions of love

count these moments onto an abacus of beads,
each one joining more focused and golden frozen seeds
of a future tapestry to lie beneath

it will be okay,
there is an art
to overcoming

—————————–
THIS IS AN ORIGINAL POEM BY KATE JOB, DO NOT REPRODUCE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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