my brain thinks
it knows
how to heal me
   or decide
it is hopeless
   or not needed
   
but i hear another
saying stop, rest
you can't rush
your healing

as long as it takes
in as many small ways
learning one by one
   to allow
settling new shapes

your (my)
choices
determine
choices
my (your)

  we are
the inbetween
all that is
outside
and
a temporary inside
where we shelter
and imagine we are
  separate

you've reached the end
the last sheet left
on the long spool used up
without a second thought
only one more useful
task of sopping up a mess
someone else carelessly
made taking you for granted
the last bright red soak
of spilled tomato soup
and you're thrown down
to be recycled, replaced
by a fresh fat roll