I haven’t nailed it yet, but I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.
Of thinking out loud in a crowd of the hammering whispers slamming my head.
Of going along each knobs and screws this potluck of personalities may bring.
Of keeping up with their seasons and episodes of bitching, glitching, and switching.
Of housing a monstrous rage that is triggered by every punctuation and dotted line sown.
Of moods swinging through hoops and running too fast in a race my head creates on its own.
Of assuming myself an almighty Arthropodous lord,
welcoming all unfortunate souls to later feel alone.
I’ve asked for hugs but I’m sharp all over, humming Christmas carols to ground a sanity that hovers.
Labels are for canned soup, for objects, and I don’t like talking about it.
Bipolar bitch, loony schiz, all in all, ration with me, I’m your banana split.
Sprinkled nuts, dressed up klutz, I’m a platter of your favorite flavors.
A dessert that mirrors your orders, soft & sweet for your first impression.
But in the hours you leave me be, I meltdown to a distort of colors.
A manic delusion spiraling hand in hand with your pitiful depression.
Hyperventilating in yet another toilet stall, cornered hall, and blanket ball wrapped.
I’ve asked for hugs but I’ve warned you that loving me is a sticky mess best not kept.
——
10th October 2019
World Mental Health Day
