Chronically
Ironically
It seems to be
All fallacies
Of things to be
That I'll never get the chance to see.
Jive and jeer
Laugh and sneer
A cough, a wheeze
Laughing at me
And all my pleas
I know in truth I'll never be free
But to clarify, don't let vague by, description of the fallen
Every molecule I'm made of has an infection, a problem.
Is it in my brain, I wonder?
Because even I'm afraid to check.
You've seen my anger, my fury
And my graphic imaginings of death.
And the jealousy that festers
And the perversions that I flaunt
And the lengths I would go
Simply to get what I want.
I've spoken of Misophonia
(God, I hate my ears)
I've explained how every sound
Causes abject anger or fear.
I've talked of how my brain
Just doesn't understand
A single 'trigger' noise and
I've either screamed or ran.
I've discussed my depression
I've described why and how I cut
I explained that my Heart wants blood
Though my Brain screams 'Enough'
I've mentioned my memory lapses
That are no longer quite selective
How the line of my memories aren't
Sequential; aren't consecutive.
I've written and erased just how lonely I am
I've written of tears through tears
I've written of hurt and of love
And even hope, or maybe fear.
I've written my family whom I hate to love
I've written my desire to be owned and kept
I've written my straying from beliefs and religion
I've written ****-themes of what has and hasn't happened yet
I've written my thoughts: why was my life like this?
I've written my thoughts: can I be someone else?
I've written my thoughts: can you change my colour?
I've written my thoughts: why wasn't I born male?
I've typed my heart: someone somewhere is gonna love you.
I've typed my soul: no one needs to see it.
I've typed my mind: you're useless, ugly, crass
I've typed the facts: I'm a *******.
And that's only a fraction of my brain.
Only a portion of what hurts.
That's only a taste of what makes me insane.
A glimpse of a wasteland of dust and dirt.
We'll go no farther there, not today
We've much more to explore.
It's not safe in my brain at all
But, perhaps later, we'll see more.
Now the problem could lie on my skin.
That's riddled with scars and life.
My skin that tells a story
Of pain, of hate, of strife.
My skin, god I always hated it
The color, the scarring, the texture
There's not a **** thing about it
That doesn't make me feel lesser.
My skin, you don't understand
My skin makes me, me.
My skin, you don't comprehend!
Color is all you see.
I was raised to be wary
Of everything, alive or dead
But skin was the selling point
I was the monster under my bed.
My skin explains stories
I never thought to tell
My skin holds trauma
In every atom, every cell
My skin is calloused
From scars and hurt and work
Like an ever-present melody
It's driving me berserk.
But the problem may be in my organs
Perhaps inside my lungs.
I remember at thirteen I felt trauma
And almost picked up and fired a gun.
But instead I chose a lighter and
A stick filled with cancer
Instead I ****** up my voice
Just so I wouldn't remember.
Maybe it's in my heart
With its irregular beating
And the constant stress
Chilling and overheating.
The unending adrenaline
The paranoia never stops
The suicide attempts
I'm sure my heart's about to pop.
And yet I may never know
There's too many issues
Every molecule I own
Needs to be made anew.
This was a checkup
And a shoddy one at best
But should I ever go in-depth
I'll write it all, I'll write the rest.