Call me crazy.
No, really, call me crazy.
There is no but after that slaughtering word.
It just happens to be intermingled with me.

See, it’s not my fault I live with dark art
splattering my insides, pick-pocketing
my thoughts. And I’m sorry I can’t come
to that party, or bar, or your house.
I’m ******* at the moment, fist fighting
demons
you can’t see.
Or maybe,
you’d just rather not look.

I can compute tough equations, speak eloquently and with poise. Despite the noise. I am productive and kind,
always others before me.
But it’s never enough
because
someone
called me crazy,
and I believed it.
Despite the diagnoses,
believing you made me worse.
You infiltrated my soul, and I became
who you told me I was.

Words can be a curse.
So call me crazy.
It can’t break a heart
that’s been broken
for years.

~kb