survivor

we're all survivors here, she says casually
assuming a history i have not divulged
except, in the way i turn my eyes from the graphic moments
the way i clutch your hand tighter when they yell for me from across the street
and obviously, we can recognize each other, but i have never felt
like a survivor until this moment
sitting luxurious on her overstuffed couch, stomach full and warm
pontificating on theories of pain across the polished wood of her coffee table
jumping up now and then to refill my glass

but i have never felt like a survivor.
see, to me surviving means just hanging on
one day at a time seems bleak, and pointless
like a plane wreck with a body found, half frozen and waterlogged
attached to machines and pumped back to some semblance of life
and the news says one survivor
and what they don't say is that their life, though saved, is forever changed
stripped of their consciousness and the innocence they say we're all born with
i don't want to survive like that
each second a reminder of what i've been through
because i have been through it all, but i don't want to live day by day
merely surviving, packing meaning into labels
that describe only what i've seen, and never who i am.

at the hospital they teach us to say overdose instead of suicide
and to share our feelings and talk about what we call traumas or incidents
and it's my fourth day before i hear the word survivor
thrown in among the rest of the jargon we embrace as a filing system for emotions
that do not stay still under names
so i take my tea to the swing in the hospital courtyard
fresh air on my side of the locked door
and pollute the fading daffodils with memories altogether too vivid.
did i? i ask out loud, embracing my label of crazy
did i survive?

because she says survivor like at least we've gained wisdom
but sometimes, i don't want to be strong, or brave
sometimes i want to curl crying into your shoulder and just let go
sometimes i do not want to know that this world is usually tough, and harsh
but instead believe that once in a while the good will win
that the sun will always rise again in the morning
and it's funny how we tend to de-emphasize beauty
stow those sunrises away next to dancing without incentive
and singing because you can't hold it back
and i seem to remember laughing for no reason except the air felt good on my face
and i knew i was beautiful
i seem to remember an unaffected hug, no one searching for lust
in that dark corner of here we go again

so i join my memory back on that overstuffed couch,
draped with our collective histories
and i touch my face, my hair, arms wrapped around myself to ensure my solidity
and i say it's funny how we as a people feel the need to hurt each other
and then use it as an excuse for never being quite whole again
reveling in this label of broken, held together by the glue
of the names we take refuge in
and i think that maybe, we don't break that easy
but only bend until the pressure is such that we wish we would
although we have convinced ourselves of our own fragility
and i think that maybe i can reject that image of the plane going down
maybe
i can let my past go
instead of letting it determine my present.