losing our grip on purpose

By Liz DeGregorio

Can I help that I was born this way, born to barely tolerate
the constant jump of my stomach into my heart,
             my heart into my throat,
                          my throat unable to scream or cry out or
                                        do anything else to signal for help

In nightmares, my heart pounds, either in my body or in my mind –
I am unable to bend over to even tie my own shoes,
I’m liable to tumble over onto my back like a fat turtle,

And in my waking life, this fearfulness continues
as I bend at odd angles to twist the laces together,
Not knowing if I have enough strength to hold this body,
my only one, upright.

A blister on the bottom of my foot in waking life turns into a
stab wound in my sole in my nightmares,
Agony as I try to put one foot in front of the other,
as opposed to the slippery, watery irritation I feel in reality…

Surely the things that go on in my nightmares are
as real as what goes on when I’m awake,
because those events grow from my brain and my heart,
            I grew them myself.

I tell a cardiologist who informs me I have a beautiful heart
that I grew it myself,
I’m not sure why I always have to do my tight five
whenever there are medical professionals prodding me,
             calming my nerves with my own bad jokes.

Liz DeGregorio (she/her) is a poet, writer and editor whose work has appeared in Electric Literature, The Rumpus, Catapult Magazine, Lucky Jefferson, ANMLY, SCARS Magazine, BUST, Ghouls Magazine, OyeDrum Magazine, Blink Ink, Morbidly Beautiful, Dread Central and other publications. She’s also performed at the award-winning storytelling series Stranger Stories.