Jericho
I am...I don't know.
My head is...I don't know.
There's a whole mess of I-don't-know running through my brain.
The heater keeps turning on and I want to kill it. But I don't want to get up.
That wasn't what I wanted to say. That wasn't the thing inside my head trying to get out. And yet it appeared anyway.
I felt high last night, humming at the foot of my bed as I played a game, listening to a random mix of songs I'd already approved. Songs that have been running through my mind since my obsession with hearing them began some several weeks ago. The world felt nice around me. Quiet and dark. I felt alone. I felt that feeling when you ask to be left alone and people listen and comply without the implication that "are you upset about something?" or are being anti-social. Who could blame us, though? The social of the world sucks.
How dare you shut down your mind? How dare you think the thoughts that are your own?
Where was I going? Where is my mind?
This started as another thing. It was started by another person wearing my skin. She's still in the house somewhere but she doesn't have access to a computer.
I'm trying to be poignant. I'm trying to be meaningful. I'm trying to matter. Even though I'd be happier not being matter at all.
I've said this all before and much improved.
I've been brighter. My words have been better. I'm bitter about being worse. I'm bitter. I'm a caper. I'm a heist. I'm stealing your attention. I'm taking it for my own without paying for it. Without earning it. I'm a caper. I'm vinegar on the tongue. I'm over-seasoned and best thrown out. Stop adding salt to the rice and turning it sour.
Does this even mean anything? I mean, do the words have value? Do they have a hidden agenda? Do I have concern for their well-being?
I wanted to write these words. I wanted to say these things. And now, well, it's vomit disguised as dinner. I enjoyed it once, but never the second time around.
Do you hear the falsity in my voice? The mediocrity of the poetry I spin? It's supposed to mean something and yet it just doesn't matter.
My head is...My head is I don't know. It's like it's being flooded by a foreign signal. There's all this information and context and data and chatter downloading into my mind, filling up the corners, but it all means nothing. Or nothing of it means anything.
I'm trimming the edges to make it fit in the box and not caring what falls on the floor.
And column A is saying "it's the new meds" and column B...isn't really saying anything. It's just sort of snickering at me.
Column B is a phantom dashing about the room. I can't get ahold of her. Can't quite see her. Can't make out the shape of her face. How do you pin a wave upon the sand?
I want to wash out to sea, an ocean of sound, and drown in the music. I want the words to pull together and work together and stitch in time to save my mind.
And there's deja-vu at the door again. She's brought sugar-free cookies to book club again and expects me to serve them immediately, on a fancy plate, even though all we've ever done is drink wine and gossip about the trophy wife down the way. She wanted to join us but we "neg"ed her away. Saying things like her job must keep her way too busy to join us. And then we laughed behind her back and a little to her face and reveled in the joy of making her cry.
Meanwhile she's fucking my husband behind my back because he hates who I've become. But what does it matter? We never loved each other anyway. If we'd had dogs instead of kids, we could have been done with this by now.
It feels like there's a layer of lace between me and the world. Intricate but still transparent.
I'm awake but I'm sleeping. I'm starving and unsatisfied. I want someone to hold close but also to kick out of bed. I want a cover, a case, that will wrap around me and click into place. That will keep me still. Let me stay in one spot, one moment, and keep me from falling apart with the need to shake my infant to death.
I want to wrap my hands around my throat and strangle myself into oblivion. I want to go dark. I want to go deep into the black, oily depths of the universe. I want to swallow the muck and grime and sludge until I sink beneath this paper-thin layer we hold so dear.
I want it all to come tumbling down.
My head is...I don't know.
There's a whole mess of I-don't-know running through my brain.
The heater keeps turning on and I want to kill it. But I don't want to get up.
That wasn't what I wanted to say. That wasn't the thing inside my head trying to get out. And yet it appeared anyway.
I felt high last night, humming at the foot of my bed as I played a game, listening to a random mix of songs I'd already approved. Songs that have been running through my mind since my obsession with hearing them began some several weeks ago. The world felt nice around me. Quiet and dark. I felt alone. I felt that feeling when you ask to be left alone and people listen and comply without the implication that "are you upset about something?" or are being anti-social. Who could blame us, though? The social of the world sucks.
How dare you shut down your mind? How dare you think the thoughts that are your own?
Where was I going? Where is my mind?
This started as another thing. It was started by another person wearing my skin. She's still in the house somewhere but she doesn't have access to a computer.
I'm trying to be poignant. I'm trying to be meaningful. I'm trying to matter. Even though I'd be happier not being matter at all.
I've said this all before and much improved.
I've been brighter. My words have been better. I'm bitter about being worse. I'm bitter. I'm a caper. I'm a heist. I'm stealing your attention. I'm taking it for my own without paying for it. Without earning it. I'm a caper. I'm vinegar on the tongue. I'm over-seasoned and best thrown out. Stop adding salt to the rice and turning it sour.
Does this even mean anything? I mean, do the words have value? Do they have a hidden agenda? Do I have concern for their well-being?
I wanted to write these words. I wanted to say these things. And now, well, it's vomit disguised as dinner. I enjoyed it once, but never the second time around.
Do you hear the falsity in my voice? The mediocrity of the poetry I spin? It's supposed to mean something and yet it just doesn't matter.
My head is...My head is I don't know. It's like it's being flooded by a foreign signal. There's all this information and context and data and chatter downloading into my mind, filling up the corners, but it all means nothing. Or nothing of it means anything.
I'm trimming the edges to make it fit in the box and not caring what falls on the floor.
And column A is saying "it's the new meds" and column B...isn't really saying anything. It's just sort of snickering at me.
Column B is a phantom dashing about the room. I can't get ahold of her. Can't quite see her. Can't make out the shape of her face. How do you pin a wave upon the sand?
I want to wash out to sea, an ocean of sound, and drown in the music. I want the words to pull together and work together and stitch in time to save my mind.
And there's deja-vu at the door again. She's brought sugar-free cookies to book club again and expects me to serve them immediately, on a fancy plate, even though all we've ever done is drink wine and gossip about the trophy wife down the way. She wanted to join us but we "neg"ed her away. Saying things like her job must keep her way too busy to join us. And then we laughed behind her back and a little to her face and reveled in the joy of making her cry.
Meanwhile she's fucking my husband behind my back because he hates who I've become. But what does it matter? We never loved each other anyway. If we'd had dogs instead of kids, we could have been done with this by now.
It feels like there's a layer of lace between me and the world. Intricate but still transparent.
I'm awake but I'm sleeping. I'm starving and unsatisfied. I want someone to hold close but also to kick out of bed. I want a cover, a case, that will wrap around me and click into place. That will keep me still. Let me stay in one spot, one moment, and keep me from falling apart with the need to shake my infant to death.
I want to wrap my hands around my throat and strangle myself into oblivion. I want to go dark. I want to go deep into the black, oily depths of the universe. I want to swallow the muck and grime and sludge until I sink beneath this paper-thin layer we hold so dear.
I want it all to come tumbling down.
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