Clutch

After a war,
despite the sun rising through gun smoke
everyone wears dark colors.

I have begun to pull my hair out
one kinky, gnarled strand at a time
because I am forcing my brain to comprehend
what it was not created to do.

Forcing neurons to fire
and receive orders
that are so foreign
I can feel the sparks flying jaggedly
through gray matter.

It hurts in a novel way,
dull, pressure, motion sickness;
but others will label it
PTSD;
preferred to sustain dignity
passing through scenic destruction
pretty thoughts shot dead,

and it was so beautiful,
is what I had to tell myself
otherwise
I'd still be crying,
I refuse to be human anymore.

(Compost Heap, 2010.)