Seeds of Dissociation

The version of me that un-rinds an orange

Soft pressed to spit out the white seeds settle on my nose

Do not know my other version hard bites an apple

She’s the type of flower that can still grow after a forest fire — Acrewss

The version of me that un-rinds an orange to smear at the segments of the endocarp, soft pressed to spit out the white seeds, and also some tiny juice bubbles that settle on my nose

Do not know

My other version hard bites an apple, thumb weeding out the black seeds,
leaving gum bleeds on its skin, and pain in my gut.

Now an orange is an orange and apple not and orange, find seat in a ceramic crucible, broken yet melted in gaps, mal-fitted with abstract gold.

Kintsugi is le lac* made of words.

Jostling for space, some seeds within, some spit out, blown to the wind, weeze through fire earth and adopted without signature.

Seeds black, settle near my sinus, buzzing through

my nerves, throbbing ache caged, flapping wings to my tinnitus tympanum, thumping through my brain circuits, torn, naked copper sending tremors un-readable in Richter scale.
My hair permed, my face undressed, sending shocks to a shaped glass.

I bear. I dissociate. I tear myself apart, apples pressed hard by the left, flushed down the bin, oranges right palmed to reach the sky, lay a head on soft, mushy clouds, where the breeze wash my curls. Unintended.

Make no mistake for the white seeds grow orange and black seeds apple being born to the same mother, they never confuse identity.

So I bear.
I dissociate.
I tear myself apart.
One pushed down. One held up.

An apple black. An orange white.
The seeds of dissociation.

You know what they say about that Apple and Orange comparison. Eh!

(*French for Lake)

Author’s Notes: The italicised phrases are symptoms, which may appear singly or collectively when autoimmune flare strikes.
The time to dissociate from the black seeds of painful physical reality and trigger the orange-inside to enter a make shift world where I walk the clouds, smell the lavender on sky’s earth and bury myself in words.

#Art of living

#Auto immune disorder

#inflammation

#prose

#resilience