Some days my body feels less like a home and more like a butcher shop after closing everything is raw everything is hanging everything is named only by the place it was cut from neck back hip the monster moves through me with its apron on humming slaughtering it knows the difference between tender and ruined it knows exactly where to press to make me see God and hate him but the people I love still come to the counter to visit each morning and so I turn the sign to open I force a smile while the monster works the saw because I fear no one wants to buy grief by the pound so I wrap my fear of being a burden In brown paper and twine I arrange the slabs of me under the glass when the bell above the door rings I wipe my mouth I straighten my spine my family my friends the people who say they love me come in I give them the best cuts of me as if love has become another customer I cannot afford to disappoint look how clean I can be look how little blood you had to step over look how beautifully I can suffer in hopes that I do not ruin your appetite.
This poem is one of three that was inspired by the incredible Ilana J Sprongl, as well as an anonymous muse who submitted a prompt related to chronic illness.
The other two poems are “When The Weather Changes” and “A Small Blessing For The Body That Keeps Going”. I decided to post “A Small Blessing For The Body That Keeps Going” first incase anyone needs to revisit a lighter poem after reading them.
More specifically these three poems are about what it feels like to live inside a body that can change with the weather, the pressure, the smallest invisible shift in the air.
About pain that arrives before the rain does. Pain that makes a home inside you. Pain that other people cannot see, so you learn to perform wellness for them. You smile at dinner. You answer texts. You say, “I’m fine,” because explaining the full truth feels too heavy to place in someone else’s hands.
It is also about the impossible math of pain management: wanting relief, needing relief, but being afraid of what certain medications that can be addictive and dangerous.
Chronic illness can be lonely, not because there are no people around you, but because so much of it happens in private. In bathrooms. In beds. In the quiet calculation of whether you can make it through one more event, one more shift, one more normal-looking day.
If this poem made you feel seen, or if it made you think of someone you love, Ilana and I wanted to share a few Canadian resources:
Crohn’s and Colitis Canada supports people living with Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis through education, community, advocacy, and research toward better treatments and cures. Their work focuses on improving the lives of children and adults affected by inflammatory bowel disease.
The Canadian Spondyloarthritis Association supports people living with spondyloarthritis, including axial spondyloarthritis and related inflammatory arthritis conditions. They provide education, advocacy, awareness, and community for patients, caregivers, and healthcare professionals, including work around reducing the long diagnostic delays many patients face.
Please check on your chronically ill friends. Believe them, even when they put on a brave face.
And if you are living with this too: I believe you. I believe the pain you hide. I believe the life you are building around it.
This post was inspired by a prompt provided in The Muse Jar, a project where people submit something —a word, memory, smell, anything—and I randomly pick some to write a poem about.
If you would like to learn more about The Muse Jar, you can see the post below.
If you would like to become a muse, you can submit here.
*hugs*