by E. Lewy


Never physically abusive,
words and deeds ensured
that how I learned to write
was also how I learned to find peace

A daily challenge,
and space to breathe
both in one, and always told
part of me was dirty

Part always awful
wrong. gone off, happy
to be those, and other things,
part of me was mine

And every single
day there was time
not taken by the pain,
part peace and quiet.


Always there was
the never knowing,
the mystery
how did I do it?

Not the writing or creating
but the living and not dying,
the loving and not hating
of myself and what I was.

Until or except when
that wasn’t the truth at all,
constant battle
waged and won (or lost).

Cells slowly eating themselves,
mind slowly becoming
what it would be
yet never to be known


My self developed
character by character,
intricate designs, carried
with me until

What I was was a writer
in every space allowed to me.
with every breath,
peace in the margins


Then came the blank day,
time gone, confused, erased,
my self unknown once more,
and never an answer anywhere.

Memory obliterated,
knowledge of time eliminated,
only pencil dots where lines
and shapes and facts had been.

And time, so much time
lost in the sea of not knowing.
Hiding in bed days on end,
unaware of who would emerge


Finally a remembrance of myself
Writer. Storyteller.
A need to find the story
and hold on tight

So tight that writing was
myself knitting back together.
A daily task once more,
bringing back who I was, time and all


The struggle remains
to knit more complex patterns
of self trust, of identity
into the words pouring from my chest

Memory a blank slate on two-day-old words,
goals of the night before forgotten
in two, five, ten minutes, or certainly
between times eyes close and when they open

Everything gone, rebuilt,
and writing produced day to day
pieced together with shame and frustration
at what is, in comparison to what could be.

What has occurred is largely unknown and unknowable,
results inconclusive, the slate blank once more,
through-line rebuilt newly each day
with words still pouring forth.

E. Lewy is a poet, fiction writer, and blogger whose work, including poetry, has previously appeared in Breath and Shadow, New Mobility Magazine, and widely across the blogosphere. A short piece of memoir will appear in the forthcoming The Spoon Knife Anthology: Thoughts on Compliance, Defiance, and Resistance. E. lives in Massachusetts with her cat.

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