Is it that I crave
an understanding of self
amidst a turmoil of state
or is it that I'm a coward
always running from
crying out for
justifying
what I
always
knew
to be
true.

I would
eat the squishy grapes for you
warm your cold hands
share with you the last of my rice and beans
massage your stiff neck
get up from comfort to pour you a glass of cool water
assist and twist and crack your spine further
treat you to your favorite ramen, donating my extra noodles
tiptoe across the creaky floorboards to not stir you
and always give you the space you need to breathe
and feel
and be
yourself.

There feels like there are wasps in my chest,
Piercing the skin from within,
But that pain is better to focus on than
The desire to drag metal across skin
And stain my sheets red, too.

Only one question remains:
Will I pick up the razor-sharp, fractured pieces
And craft a novelty anew?

No human enters this Earth born to serve,
to slave, to suffer, to scramble desperately
away from fire, from threats that mutated
all too rapidly into a guarantee coupled with existence.

No human enters this Earth born to survive,
to brave, to withstand, to endure grievously
through oxygen-starved blood, blockaded lungs
wrapped in wine bruises concealed from all.

No human enters this Earth born to be subservient,
to be exploited, to be depleted, to be drained relentlessly
until heart and eyes and chest become an aching hollow
and there is nothing left for the parasites to devour.

I look in the mirror
To see a young boy
Masquerading
Typecasted into roles with
Skin-crawling costume design
Constricting and waist-binding
The seams searing the skin
Molded to meet the suffocating criteria
There is sorrow deep in his eyes
Knowing he has deceived and deluded
And performed this scene for far too long
Acting restlessly in a futile effort to belong
But he was never meant for this role
The blinding stagelights and heavy curtain
Even if he will miss the roses and applause
He wants nothing more than freedom.

Look at me,
Look at my smile that dances in the natural light.

Rain poured all night until sky revealed a chilled morning
notably warmer than winter's frost- jacket weather at most.
The sun rose ever higher, blinding white and warming
land, locals, and floaters alike, long frozen to the bone.
The smell of grass' rapid rush to shape light to energy fuses
with the air still heavy and thick with the weight of the lake.
Yet, evening spirals in orange to pink to purple until towering
shadows overhang, plunging the streets into early midnight.
Relentlessly the concrete canopy floods every surface, hail batters,
bass rumbles follow with illumination of unadulterated power.

It unmistakably feels like a home renounced to a deceived body,
with it rears fears of past: confinement, subjugation, mistreatment,
but it is not home.

I am home now. It doesn't matter who that upsets.

A brain chemically imbalanced.

How could taking two little white pills every morning
slowly but surely resolve eight years of major depression
ameliorate symptoms that strangle the mind and spirit,
destroying self-worth, competency, basic functionality.

Despite a set-back of a month of unstable, barely restrained
suicidal thoughts, whole-heartedly consuming every minute
of conscious thought and shattering already severely fragmented
sleep, the only repose from the onslaught of endless thoughts
each one affirming deservance and supplying means to an end.

The vile depression, mind-warping, heart-marring, shape-shifting,
perspective-rearranging, adapting to every new environment,
clawing its nightmare-grip further into my chest day after day,
haunting me even in its remission: the depression was sinister.

Body and brain scarred and healing, starved synapses react,
a regiment of medicine, taxing-thought, and long-scarce love,
but indisputably vital: taking two little white pills every morning
slowly but surely resolves eight years of major depression.

A brain chemically balanced.