Lydia Rae Bush

Lydia Rae Bush is a poet writing on embodiment, trauma recovery, and social-emotional development. Rae’s work has been seen in publications such as FULL MOOD MAG, Crab Apple Literary, and Poetry as Promised Magazine. When not writing, Lydia can be found singing and dancing, especially in bed when she is supposed to be going to sleep. Socials: @LRBPoetry.

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

drink the spiked french toast batter

don't say the national day off work aloud.
it ruins everything—turns it from a feeling into an annoying
lack thereof. but what i mean is, though i don't have an album
for mid-july or december first, i always keep november

pine antiquing saxophone with seasonal wood-burning
stove environs on a tab, while i read or write or hug
stuffed animals. it lacks the standard words and images
that never connect or relate, but it keeps the sound of adhd

everything going to be alright. this shadow white noise
blankets me better than the perfectionist day
ever has, as it keeps the national time off
work's struggle bus with me in its soul's

fragmented spirit—a shining, frozen
water flake or all that—melting into me, as it is,
and when i show it that it actually can relax,
it thrums, honey, you now too.

insomni

i let my mind anxiety
in the moonlight
for hours.

four hours.
i'm well aware
it hurts,

not helps,
nor saves. it's about
the work it'd take

to stop what takes
up energy. i forget
how automatic defaults

are still actions—
churning, burning, always
wearing batteries down. and

i will burn out,
so really it's about
how i forget

that no matter
how tired you become
from panicking,

you can't
survival
into rest.

no, you can't
get the soothing
of stress

to lull you to sleep.
there's no loopholes
to ruminate into peace.

if i'm okay/ sure, careful

My brain runs down
every branch of the thought tree

while my body
is still beginning to climb the trunk.

Yet, my body
hammers eight 8th notes

while my brain
stays on a whole rest.

If I have a soul,
I think that it is the puppeteer

to my marionette. I am not so much
out of sync

as jerky—

anxious when deliberate,
and calm when I crash into everything.

I may look like a wooden boy
but be the graying man who crafted him.

Interpret me like a child
breathes in a show—

gasping, gentle,
curious and direct.

Love me without needing
to know what is going on.

Tug new wrinkles into the skin
on my arms,

and then just ask.