November i.
November is the bitter month of revival.
It forces past memories out of the grave, I fear.
Screaming and clawing their way out for survival,
begging to be anything but archival.
November is the solemn reminder that I am still here.
It is climbing the ladder with no end in sight,
knowing that what lies at the “top” is not sunshine;
but a storm that will envelop me into its endless night.
Being crushed under the weight of the moonlight,
seeing the angelic glow feels sickeningly divine
The claws that itch the back of my brain are
resurfacing dark, vivid images of my final night alive.
Pills danced across my jagged palms like couples at a bar,
each movement starting to sound more and more like, “au revoir.”
I fell in love with the thought that soon, I would no longer have to survive.
November ii.
November is the bitter month of culpability.
The graveyard is not yet silenced,
it must be heard; there will not be any tranquility.
The corpse of my memory will have a sense of hostility,
I have no choice but to surrender my compliance
All that “it” wants is to flip the switch,
is it too much to ask to feel inexplicable joy once again?
Whether to turn oneself “on” or “off” seems like an uncrossable bridge;
would it be easier to cross if it were in the form of a ridge?
All the screams are asking, “when?”
When do I learn that my demons do not define me?
That the dancing pills, scattered scars on my legs, and bruises
in my heart are nothing more than items that speak to foresee
the destiny that lies ahead; drawn in a desperate plea.
“Please do not be the future she chooses.”
November iii
November is the bitter month of acceptance.
I have accepted that my demons do, in fact, define me.
They define my past, my present, my future, they enhance
my experience and life as a human being. By chance,
if my demons did not define these aspects of myself, I would flee.
The pain the graveyard holds
is greater than anything I have ever known.
The dancing pills within my barren hands molds
my resolve; I will turn that graveyard into a stronghold.
What once ripped my fear from my body will no longer grow;
lying there now is a beautiful golden sunshine meadow.
Sunflowers now dance in the freeing breeze, singing their song
with the tulips, roses, lilies, and dandelions beside them.
The smell of pine, maple, oak, and birch trees
and the sound of gently buzzing bumble bees
is where I had found my future waiting for me all along.
Georgia Coomer is a sophomore student currently studying Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. She enjoys writing on darker subjects that have happy endings, and she draws inspiration from the people around her. This piece is her first publication.
Arrow Rock Literary Journal 