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the clandestining of clystering
The Silence of Clystering
In the hush between spasms,
I felt the weight of wanting.
Not for grandeur, nor triumph—
but for relief shaped like water,
delivered gently, through
the trust of an ancient ritual.
You speak of purity, a clyster
unmuddied by error or haste—
and I hear the echo of many
who have knelt before porcelain altars,
begging the gut to soften its defiance.
Clarity does not come easily.
Sometimes, it is ushered in
by the undignified, by the pipes
and poultices of forgotten medicine,
by the simple act of saying,
I hurt, and I need help.
Clystering is not weakness.
It is reclamation.
It is the quiet science of asking
for ease when the body clenches
hard against peace.
And in that asking— you are noble.
.
