Starfish

There are nights where I’d grab a handful of pills, 

and I’d dare myself to swallow.

There are nights where I did, though not tonight, 

for the menu is a fistful of suck-it-ups stuck down my throat to wallow.

Though on those few nights where I did, I found out that your whole body can go against its owner for not having a say in all this.

My heart leads with an unstoppable solo, my brain cells whined as a choir, and all the joints frantically danced the pain they feel away, reminding me of its function’s bliss.

There are nights where I’d slam myself to every surface, 

hitting myself to this heart’s haywire ballad once more.

On these nights, they blindfold me from the inside.

All of the brain cells in charge were tied up 

and what’s left is yet another surviving dance you’d rather ignore.

My body rages on its own on behalf of the bottled things I couldn’t say, for I was too afraid to do so when my insides begged me to run away.

Before matters get worst, 

and other triggers are pulled. 

For up above, it’s all a playwright rehearsed 

and down here I beat myself up for a lack of standing ovation, 

the threads I can’t change, all tangled and mulled.

And there are nights like tonight, 

where I light six incenses, not less not more, 

for all the ties, scripts, and plans that they have tore.

I’d try to explain myself to everyone and everything out there that’s willing to hear me out when others won’t; pray like I’ve never before.

I’d apologize that this is was my last resort, but to those who have watched over me all this time I’ve come for a long overdue report.

I wonder if their same eyes are as clouded by those down here in age, enraged. I wonder if they are as fair as what I’ve been thought, listening tentatively, filing my case word to word - page to page.

I wonder some more, 

and I daze off mid-prayer 

on to the nights where I’d feel saner, and I’d wager some more.

There are nights instead. where I’m just a starfish, 

wishing I was at a temperature lower, cooler than this heat, 

under a prettier and deeper sea.

I see my grandma doing this a lot after grandpa was gone,
and I wonder if this is what life does to you

when you act as if you’re too strong to be broken down.

You survive with the act

and the picture perfect frame pose they’d want to see.

You close your eyes, lay in bed, where your insides’ a ruckus of yet another ambush of your organs’ band rehearsal, but you make no sound.

These are nights where I’d just a write a poem like this, 

wishing for things to wash away on shore, 

and in the sands, you and me, both the same starfish,

Contemplating in one place, together once more.