Not your good crazy.
Self-absorbed.
Selfish.
Stubborn.
Won’t trust, won’t trust, won’t trust.
**** your “help”
**** your advice,
I can do it on my own.

Start stop.
Start stop.
Start stop.

Hide the pills,
hide the bottles,
hide the truth,
lie and lie and lie,
it’s easy, it’s bred into me.
It’s exhausting but
I will run myself to the ground,
because I can.

Not your good crazy.
Wallow and dwell
in my hole
I’ve made home sweet home.
Glorify and hate this state
all at once,
make it a part of my identity.

Crave the labels,
crave the bad,
crave the harmful,
crave the instability,
crave the things that hurt.

What’s hurt to me, anyway?

Not your good crazy.
Not interested in Better,
not interested in Useful,
not interested In Practical,
not interested in Good,
not interested in Recovery.
Not the way you mean.

It’s all a game to me.

Not your good crazy.
What state will you find me in?
It’s a mystery to all of us,
I aim to confuse,
Aim for Anti-hero.
Angel or Devil,
All or None,
you can’t pin me down.

Not your good crazy.

It’s too bad, I suppose.
Was I supposed to say more?
Yes, of course I was,
what a question to ask
when I know that in the end
I’m always an overwhelming

Under-reaction.

[There’s a reason I never got bullied in school.]

I wonder why
I keep the letters,
the old poetry
when none of it makes me feel
anything at all
but
I guess all documentation is
in memoriam.

-
It’s too bad,
we couldn’t be
Civil.

[But of course,
Civil is never what you wanted,
I should have known better, my fellow borderline.
It’s all or none.
It’s always been that way.]

I think about you from time to time
not with anger,
just with,
well, I don’t know.

I don’t suppose
we’ll ever talk again.

The difference between you and I
is that if you cut me off,
I get the picture.
You say you’re done,
well,
say no more,
I’m gone.
There’s no need
to embarrass myself
again.

The difference between
you and I
is that I don’t cross
Boundaries.

-
Tonight
I find myself
rereading your poetry.
I do it from time to time -
strange to think of it
as illicit, Bad, Facebook stalking,
when we used to know each other.
[Seemingly.]

This one,
one of your many published poems,
is supposed to be about
Me.
That’s what you told her, anyway.
She didn’t get it,
and neither did I.
Even now,
there are not enough references to hold on to,
and the meaning is still lost on me.

[I was lost to you, a long time ago,
but that’s how it goes I guess.]

-
Found your soundclound page
[the only place I’ll hear your voice again]
and it’s strange
to see a picture of you
Smiling.

Your last words still buzz around in my head:

…I am so done trying to be your friend
…selfish,
…I deserve better

I don’t think
of you as smiling.

-
It’s too bad,
I suppose,
that I keep thinking
we could have been something,
that I keep thinking
it could have worked,
that I keep thinking
it could still work,
simply because
we had things in common.

Of course those things were never enough,
but what can I say?
I’m an idealist to the end.

-
It’s too bad, but
I am never going to forgive you.

How do you begin
to talk about trust,
when every thought
that swirls around in your brain
has additional questions
attached to it:
                         is it real?
                         is it made up?
                         is it rational?
                         is it an overreaction?
                         is it temporary?
                         is it permanent?
Tangled root systems
of the same questions,
for every thought.

And I haven’t even
started on
Feelings,
[that’s a different poem
altogether].
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when, for starters,
you can’t trust yourself.

Grow up,
with silence
and
shrugged shoulders
and
the helpless statements of:
I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t know,
in response
to all your scientific parents’ questions –
questions peppered with
“logical”
and
“rational”
and
“you understand where we’re coming from
…right?”
and
eventually,
every time you think or feel anything at all
and have no explanation,
you’re left with one question:
                                                        how can you not know?
                                                        how can you not know?
                                                        how can you not know?
-
Say a word enough times
and it starts to lose its meaning:

trust
trust
trust
trust

Is it even a word,
or just a lucky combination of letters?
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when you’ve been let down
not once, not twice, not three times…

well, what’s the point of trying to recall,
when you’ve lost count of the times.

It would be one thing,
if you knew
why you’ve been abandoned,
or why people hurt you,
or why everything gets to you so often,
                                                                       [is it you or is it them,
                                                                        is it you or is it them,
                                                                        is it you or is it them?]
but it’s the not knowing
that makes you realize
that people as a whole
are:

Unpredictable,
Unreliable,
Untrustworthy.

You’re not usually too angry about it,
this is just Reality.
-
This is just Reality, but
it’s the not knowing
that kills you,
closes up your heart
in a certain kind of way
after a while.

Oh,
you’ll talk to people,
if you must,
say whatever seem to be the right things,
be the listening ear they need,
if that’s what’s required of you,
be good, understanding, kind, empathetic,
to the best of your ability,
but you won’t Rely on them,
won’t accept statements of
I can help.
That’s a different story.
-
If you can’t trust
People.
[Forget about your family, the ones who supposedly love you,
with their helpful advice of “get a job, be useful, it’ll make you feel better.”
Forget about the docs and therapists, the ones who supposedly make it better,
with pills or overpriced talking sessions.
Forget friends, the ones who supposedly are your support system,
with “I’m here for you” and “I can help” that lead nowhere.]
then what you are left with
is trusting yourself
out of necessity.

And you’re back to where you started.

You see, I want a lot,
but verbalizing
is Vulnerability
and in my head
Cynicism is stronger
than Idealism,
always the big bully,
always laughing in its face.

[Don’t laugh at me.]

You see, I want a lot.

I want art -
all kinds of art,
and not just art,
I want "bad" art,
made with good – the best – supplies,
And I want it up on the fridge
because look,
we made it,
and that means
everything.

I want homemade zines –
Happy zines and sad zines,
food zines and PATB zines,
and everything in between.
I want homemade patches,
homemade clothes,
homemade food.

I want poetry
and essays
and writing anything at all.
I want nice journals
and nice pens.

I want music -
I want to walk into rooms
filled with instruments.

I want nature.
I want Beauty
in all the small things.
I want flowers.
I want a garden,
I want it to be alive with things
all year round.

I want a nice kitchen.
I want herbs by the windowsill.
I want good meals.
I want meals we ****** up
[because we don’t bother with recipes]
but try to eat anyway.
I want frozen pizzas and slushees
and too much candy corn
when it gets to be fall.

I want days of too much coffee.
I want London Fog days.
I want rainy days and
“A handful of puddle”
on repeat.
I want days of lying in bed doing nothing
whether or not we’re sick.

I want travel.
I want days of wandering around cities,
getting lost and
letting our feet
find the way home.
I want unplanned adventures.
I want abandoned rooftops
I want heights.
I want intuition.
I want Hope.

I want friend therapy.
I want solitude.
I want connections.
I want trust.
I want closeness.
I want safety.
I want stability.

I want Honesty.
I want vulnerability.
I want communication.
I want patience.
I want consent.
I want accountability
I want active listening.
I want remembering boundaries and triggers.

I want love -
any kind of safe love:
I want all my friends
to be my significant others.

I want shared meals,
shared feelings,
tea parties and tear parties.
I want good days,
and I want bad days -
the calm and the storm.

I want to lay down my arms,
once and for all.
Call a truce with myself.

I want to look upon
the wreckage within me,
clean it up the best I can,
let the broken parts heal on their own
accept the parts that don’t,
and build a Home within my heart,
imperfect as it is,
so it won’t matter
where I go or who I’m with.

I want to say,
“I am not Afraid –
of my parents
of the expectations of capitalism
of the Future,
of growing old.”

I want to say,
“Yes, there are unknowns,
yes, there will be fear,
but I will be Okay,
I do not have to die
because others did before me.”

[I want to say yes.]

I want to say,
“I do not have to prove anything
because the right people will understand,
and those are the people who matter.”

I want you near,
and if not near,
a voice on the phone,
synchronized meals,
these things will do
in the mean time.

Drag me out of bed for cookies,
let me be sous chef,
Kitchen kitten,
familiar,
scientist ****** wife.
[If you must call me that.]

You see, I want a lot.
And Idealism
is sometimes all I have
To keep me alive,
a wildflower that won’t be killed.
And if you want to know the truth
I don’t want to **** it -
I don’t have the heart.

[Don’t laugh at me.]

At first I thought it was a mini book,
but the moment I picked it up…

No, just a piece of art.
Just art?

Still important, yes,
but what could
"Very Different Animals"
by Frank Sherlock
be about?

I was to find out,
clips removed
and awe regained -
What a surprise!
What lines!
                     "Refigure
                      a strand of DNA
                      & you might
                      understand Me & I
                      are very different animals"
Suddenly my respect
for this art piece is
elevated.

I picked the Best object
I want it, want to keep it
a 5 minute free write
is not enough to describe this.

I scar words
and the meaning
is gone,
I always need
more time with words
                                        "What
                                          is the nature of this
                                          nature?"

I scan quick
for lines I could recycle
lines I could hold on to
I'm always grasping
for words,
that's what we writers do.
I skim the pages
and then
it all starts to feel like its all nonsense,
writing is funny that way
and if I only had more
time to read
[there will be time,
there will be time]
there's never enough time.

When you walk into this room it's always like a little tornado hit it. You could find a mix of things lying around at any time - books, outer ware [hats, sweaters, the like], at least one journal and a pen or two on the floor, in addition to the collection of writing instruments on the unused children's desk. But above all, there will always be at least one instrument out of its case  a guitar, ukulele, penny whistle, always within reach, though rarely played. Comfort objects. This is still a child's room though the occupant is  no child [just look in the drawers, behind the bed, under books, secret places to discover more Adult things.] The walls are a light green [her mother had picked this color though the kid had wanted blue] and really, the only reason the occupant can handle living in this room semi-permanently is because of the art, poetry and books everywhere.

You get used to
How are you?
and
Hope you are well!
and
overapologizing
and
I understand
and
long distance friends saying
I am here for you,
as if they could actually be physically there
as if they could give you what you needed
and as if
you could even articulate
what you really needed
and as if
they could read your mind
and somehow Know.
                [Nobody can ever Know,
                   Hell, you don’t even Know.]

You get used to
working up the nerve
to tell everyone
about what you can’t
handle
                     [It’s a laundry list]
and you get used to
your requests being
Ignored or Forgotten.
               [What can you say?
                Everyone forgets.
                And who are you to ask,
                everyone else handles these things,
                so can you.]

You get used to
Hopelessness
and
Guilt
and
Fear
and
Anxiety
and
Restlessness
a­nd
Boredom
and
instability
and
Suicidality
[but have you ever Attempted? the docs will ask
and you get used to know knowing whether to say
Yes or No. ****** if you say yes, ****** if you say no.]

You get used to
extreme idealism
followed by
extreme cynicism
and
helpless anger
and
illogical
and
hot and cold
and
all these endless cycles
and
saying goodbye
to concentration,
academia,
reading,
the things you once loved.

You get used to
the names
and
the insults
that are not
Abuse
because you are not from a “broken family”:
too sensitive
and
selfish
and
lazy
and
self absorbed
and
practically white
and
Not Indian at all
and
What would you do
if you didn’t have us
to go home to?

You get used to
the excuses
and the tears of your mother:
"Don’t be mad at me,"
and
"Think of how we feel."
and
"What would you do
if you were us?"
and
"You have to try to
Communicate."
    [You couldn’t possibly want this. You have to try.]

You get used to
Meds roulette
and
off and on therapy
and
explaining the whole sordid story

over

and

over

and

over

again,

your med details memorized
without you even trying,
and
nothing ever making it better
and
just feeling crazier at the end of the day
when the docs ignore you half of what you say
and the psych ward sends you home
with a bill and a piece of paper
that helpfully says,
“Depression with Suicidal ideation.”

You get used to
putting Dreams in the closet,
despite being told
that you’re allowed to dream,
and
huddling up
in your own closet
despite being told
that you can be Out and Proud
and
locking up all expectations
for Anyone or anything
or heaven forbid
the idea of
*** and/or Romantic Relationships,
                       [You are Asexual out of necessity now]
throwing away the key,
or at least,
burying it deep, deep, deep
where you can’t reach it easily
                   [You can’t afford those luxuries anymore]
You get used to
Lying
to anyone and everyone
whether it is necessary or not,
and
Not being Accountable,
despite telling people that you are
“trying the sobriety thing”:
          [oh my god, what a ******* joke]
sneaked wine
or spiked drinks
or whatever is cheap and available
every night when you are at home
chased with a klonopin or maybe two
[what’s the difference to you, they don’t even work]
because you are used to
no one noticing
[during the right hours]
and
you are also used to
Not Caring,
or
Tempting fate,
or
Playing the Game
with no rules
Call it what you will
[it’s all the same]
and
Not caring about
whether people stick around
or not.
[They never do, nothing can last,
it’s just a fact.]
You get used to
the “advice”:

Well if you just left the house and were social
and
Well if you just cleaned your room
and
Well if you just did things for other people
and
Well if you just stopped hanging out with sad people
and
Well if you just tried reading or watching Happy things
and
Well if you just stopped spending so much time texting
and
Well if you just got off the Internet
and
Well if you just Eat Right
and
Well if you try to Do Things
                                        [You must *always be doing things in this house.]
and
Well if you just got your license
and
Well have you tried Exercise?
and
Well have you tried Yoga?
and
Well if you just got a job again"
and
Well have you even bothered contacting these people who could help?

You get used to
just calm down
and
not knowing what to say
when you hear:
whywhywhywhywhy?
if you happen to breakdown
in front of your parents,
which happens more and more
now a days.
[How can you not know?]
You get used to
saying “fine”
no matter what –
the worse you feel
the more *fine you are
because you are used to
Never feeling better
no matter how much you
“talk about it.”
[Yes,
You are Fine,
because you should be,
you will be,
this is No Big Deal,
it could be worse
"you are not from a broken family."]

You get used to
holding back information
and
not reaching out
and
letting friendships wither
and
not trusting,
without knowing why
and
everything losing meaning
and
everything disintegrating
sooner or later.

What can you say?
Things change,
people leave,
people change,
feelings change,
you change.
What can you do?
If you’re a heartbreaker
then
you get used to that idea too.
[You secretly love the idea of
Hurting everyone else around you.
Maybe that makes you Abusive.]

You get used to
Every poem
ending up like this,
they’re all recycled words,
recycled themes,
recycled misery,
and, after all,
a dead white guy said
“there is nothing to writing
all you do is sit down
at a type writer
and bleed.”
[You get used to bleeding.]
-
But most of all,
you get used to
not being used to
Anything at all.