Light replaced by smoke
Further obscures the statue
that white candle-glowed

Hazy, pearl-grey proof
that mystic transcendence is
not light-limited

Not just the statue
or the end of soft verses
or the white candle

It was the timing
The clear-felt coincidence
of pause and darkness

Caught in airy confluence
Secular becomes divine

Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

I hate loud noises.
I really appreciate when it’s quiet.

Ever since the asylum,
I can’t stand loud noises,
especially if they’re sudden.

Gets me scared,
sad,
and then mad.

When it’s quiet,
I can think clearly.
I can do things better.
I can be more relaxed.

It’s ironic.
I feel like most people would say
I’m a loud person,
and I’ll give them that.
I can be loud sometimes,
when I’m excited.

But I still love the quiet.
I like being able to think.
When it’s too loud,
I feel like I’m losing it.

I’ve been listening to some quieter music.
Mitski is really good.

They say I have a rock voice,
but I’d rather whisper-sing instead.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

I love the quiet.
It’s never the perfect amount, though.

But are we the rabbit
Or are we the magician?

Oh, no, my dear
You've misunderstood.
We're the hat!
And there're many more wonders within!