an abundance of words is just as easily a void, and
i am dangerously close to forgetting how to speak.
there are jagged lines, meticulously spaced--
hues of lavender, rose, and pearl.
they tell a story of silence that has gone on too long.
look closer, or look away; silence.
when it was convenient, she would wipe up spilt blood--
but what about the knife? left sharp as ever
in my vulnerable hands, controlled by an even weaker mind.
so try to tell me you helped.
the brain is fragile: handle with care; vulnerable; easily shifted, moulded, changed, altered; the brain is the world and my world was in a state of collapse because in there
i killed my father (but sometimes he left me)
and i could trust my mother no matter how many reasons
she gave me not to.
but what's really ****** is that i'm not writing about what i was
trying to write. i am silenced. in my own writing,
in my own thoughts, i still struggle to put into words
how exactly it feels to question an entire reality,
to not even know who i am,
because my sense of the world around me is constricted,
restricted, and warped for a reason i couldn't understand
as a child and still don't understand now.
it feels like the middle of the ocean.
you can drown or pray for decent weather.