Before everything

i. I never knew four letters could melt
menthol candy-like, hydrochloric acid on my tongue
and keep burning it in different degrees
I had to swallow back.

ii. That there would come a time
I'd have to baptize the pain in my chest like seasons
robbing me lungfuls
on January, September and December nights.

iii. That my blood was really ink I needed to stop using
before my skin turned paper-like.

iv. That my heart had an epicenter pumping a magnitude of earthquakes
that made me tremble helplessly in its intensity;
and that they were man-made calamities
followed by harsh, heavy, whipping tsunamis
to flood my grave of bleeding, jagged fault lines.

v. That aftereffects lasted longer than treatment itself,
and that I didn't need any professional diagnosis to know
I was terminal
from the same drug that made butterfly-strokes in my veins,
whose arms withheld the only elixir to this malady.

vi. I named my sickness, my pain, my agony like orphaned children, after you--
a rare disease
the doctors didn't even know about yet.

vii. I did and I doubted
but a part of me beat signals
that echoed off the cave walls of my skull
that I knew.

viii. Before everything,
I have been warned
but I chose to listen to the soothing, wrong, hopeful voices
"He means no harm,".

ix. You began spreading like an epidemic-- a tumor to a colony of cells all over me-- until I became you;
a reflection of familiar suffering and mortality, slowly withering away.
In the end, I didn't even have you to blame
for letting me overdose from intakes
of my own ****, bitter medicine and unforgivable mistakes.

x. I guess, this was how you wanted the price to be paid.

stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amore is what they have.
love is folie a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won't keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it's all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.
abandonment.
neglect gets to a child's head-
can't help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy's back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.

three
days

among rafts
trees rivers
lakes streams
waterfalls

I walk the
fear-infested
office floors
like a king

nothing troubles
me, wade over
grim swell and
fatal seriousness

as I float on my back,
spread arms, feet,  heart,
a cloud has another helping
of an azure sky

i am mentally ill.

i have been since i was born,
or at least, that’s what i’ve been told.
although perhaps
i never knew it, perhaps
the symptoms
were triggered by trauma, perhaps
it was something that never really seemed
like an illness to me until i knew
what was considered normal. but
i am mentally ill, or mentally disordered, or mentally whatever.

and i ******* hate it.

i hate it
because i cannot think logically most of the time.
i hate it
because whatever chemical imbalances
are inside of me
make me want to scream
and bleed
and punch the walls of my home
until there are more holes than stable ground. i hate it
because me having to speak in front of
my ******* friends is cause enough to
cry for three days, because
my friends don’t understand why
i am ecstatic
around them one day when sadness
crushes my skull the next, because
my friends don’t see logic in a matter of feeling
that doesn’t make sense to them let alone me.

i hate it because
i cannot give a logical reason for this.
i hate it because
i don’t understand why i am the way i am
or what i did to deserve this.
i hate it because
i don’t understand my illness,
i don’t understand how people can
just go out into the world and be happy,
i don’t understand what it’s like to
have something go wrong in life
and react in a way considered to be “healthy”.

i hate it
because my younger brother sits
in class and suffers from his own depression
but refuses to speak up
because he believes his depression
is absolutely nothing
compared to mine,
when to me
it is everything.
i hate it because
he might be cutting himself open
every night
or at least wanting to

and

i hate it because
when i texted all of my friends
as i sat sobbing on my front porch
at ten pm
on a school night
with a bottle of pills
nestled safely in my jacket pocket,
several of them thought it was a suicide note
but none of them cared enough to push further
in my answer of “i’m fine don’t worry about me goodnight”.
i hate it because
the only person who noticed it thoroughly enough
was my ex-boyfriend,
who i scared half to death
when i told him “i’m sorry”
and “i loved you a lot before we broke up”
and “you’ll understand”
and he replied with “oh my god
please don’t
please don’t
please don’t”.

i hate it because
i ignored him.
i hate it because
i wanted out.

i hate it because
the sky fell through the earth’s floor
like shattered glass and the blood-orange
sunset bled towards the grass; i hate it because
i lay softly on the earth of my front yard
and allowed the blades of grass to soothe me
towards the afterlife; i hate it because
the world spun and spun and spun and
my vision blurred and
my heart threatened to beat so far out of my chest
and i could not stop my breathing
but i kept on taking more pills like a child eating candy.

i hate it because
when i realised i wasn’t dead,
i cried.
i hate it because
i had thirty two new notifications
from my ex and the people he had contacted
to see if i was dead
but most of them were from him,
all missed calls and texts and
heavy breathing on the other side of the phone
once he saw me calling. i hate it because
his hands were shaking
and i was talking
and sobbing
with an ex love
on my front porch as the sun and moon switched places
with half a bottle of pills in my system
and the taste of blood in my mouth
instead of talking to my friends
and family
and people
who were supposed to care about me.

i hate it because
the next day i had a pulsing headache
and a suicidal mindset
and all of my friends were cracking jokes
about how they believed i was going to **** myself
when they had no idea
how hard i’d been attempting to do so.
i hate it because
i smiled and lied through gritted teeth
and cried in the bathrooms
when a teacher pulled me aside to say -
he thought something was
“off” with me. i hate it because
i still wanted to die.

i hate it because
i can’t think straight most days.
i hate it because
sometimes everything is okay
and fine
and i can breathe without the alien invasion of
“panic attacks from the planet post-traumatic stress disorder”
and cinnamon doesn’t trigger memories
i would like to forget.
i hate it because
people don’t take mental health seriously
enough to understand why
i leave classrooms in the middle of the day
or why some kids miss school for
two weeks without explanation or why sometimes teachers
with dead eyes are more dead inside
than the human skeletons dancing in the science classrooms.
i hate it because
teenagers make suicide jokes
near people who are dying.
i hate it because
i don’t know if i got out of bed
last tuesday or how long it’s been since i last showered
or if i still love writing as much as
i used to
or if it’s just habit now.

i hate it
because my illness makes me hate myself.

i hate it because
my illness
does not define me
but it sure feels like it does.
i hate it because i cannot explain my illness myself.
i hate it because i hate my illness
and every part of it that creates me, shapes me, moves me
like a ******* puppet.

but ******* it all
if i am going to let it ****** who
i am supposed to be any longer.

My words pour out,
like a gutter reaching its breaking point,
splashing down and creating quite a mess no doubt.
But everything else is wet from rain so it is not seen,
The next day everything is clear as day,
The gutter now has an awkward lean,
And the slightest wind can cause it to sway.

for those that may not be aware
I suffer from a disease that doesn't visibly appear
I suffer from a disease known as epilepsy
it's my burden, and I'm not writing this for sympathy

one question that always is asked and repeated
what does it feel like when a seizure occurs? can you beat it?
I think I'll sum this sensation up the best way I can
so please forgive me if this poem is bland

What's the most exhausting thing you've ever done?
whether that be marathon ***, or running in the blazing sun?
take that sensation and make it twenty times worse
now there's the physical aftereffects in this very verse

Now for the mental feeling of solid lucidity,
a full but empty feeling that can't really be explained
only experienced really, and that doesn't sound sane
it's like being drunk yet sober, high but haven't smoked
but all the while, your brainstem is being choked

You know, I've realized it's impossible to describe a seizure completely offhand,
but count yourself lucky if you aren't prone to them,
even with this burden, I'll make my life grand

remove the gratituous ending
from this shallow fantasy.
let me exist in the middle,
see the forest for the trees
and not the meltdown, pretend like
it won't all eventually
burn
leave me in ashes

i am victim to her sinister skin
numbing my former intentions
i have no eyes for consequence
i will stay, shaky, in the present
i am ignoring the signs
this path
i'm running
along will
lead to
my demise

the walls still bleed her jade eyes
the weight of when i was trapped
in her midnight vise
(i still am)
blinded, stone-cold, and still i weep

strip my heart with a fountain pen,
the scalpel to her inky revenge
untangle her sorry mentality from mine
do not worry about the aftereffects
when i cease to be tangible, spill my regret
so i won't be bothered to
when i come back down.  

when i prove myself worthless, i can say
it was all worth it
at the time  
when she catches me, i can say
it was dreadful in her arms
but i left myself nowhere else to go

stars and stardust, we were
from the press impelled by the loneliness  
from the incessant at the bottom of crowds.
we ache for our numb bones
and false amore on top of the love-
folie a deux covers under
the shared madness- artist's hands.

attachment is trying desperately-
infatuation is "as if"
with deadly symptoms- us inseperable.
red roses lead to "as if i could"
with roses dropped, so memorize and recreate
from vases shattered, sculpt us together
so life is forever and not just golden hair,
my labor for your blue eyes,
and as fleeting as your weapons.

cities sunk and yet i, ardent, watch
from the depths of countenance.
it's all for you, i know that.
perceive its aftereffects and
we will lead its hangover headache,
divergent until you're sprawled over your serenade.

The flashback burns
My retinas
Until even with my eyes open
All I see is the grusome scene
I thought I'd left far behind me.
The panic sets in,
And my leg begins to bounce
Up and down
Under the table
As I try to hide the sudden onset
Of heart-stopping panic.
I should have known though
That no matter how infinitesimal
The change in my moods,
You are the most sensitive barometer.
Your eyes glance at me
And I know if I don't look up,
The piercing stare full of concern
Will bore a hole in my skull.
So I glance up into eyes
I never asked for,
Never deserved,
Never knew I needed in my life.
Your eyes hold no questions but one,
"Are you ok?"
Your eyes hold no promises but one,
"I'm not going anywhere."
I don't say a word,
Yet you know,
And so
I'm enveloped in a bear hug.
My heart slows its manic staccato beat.
My breath resumes its almost even rythm.
And I feel the broken pieces of me
Begin to fuse themselves together again.
When you release me,
The warmth lingers in my bones
As an injection of time-delayed
Antibiotics to ward off
The aftereffects of the flashback.
And for the first time in a long time,
I know I'm loved.
And Love is the greatest balm of all.
With Love
Every wound will heal,
Every pain will disappear,
Every scar will fade away,
Every bitterness will become sweet.
Love conquers all.

Gussa Ka Sailaab Sai
Nahi Darta Hu Mai.
Darta Hu Tau Sirf
Bana Banai Rishtai
Ka Bhai Jaaana.

Afraid I am not
with the Floods of Anger.
But Scared of the AfterEffects
where Relationships
will be broken and swayed away.

I want to unscrew the window grill and crawl out
To the vastness of the world
I want to throw stones at your window
And tag you along on an adventure
Make a space ship in the garage
Travel to parallel universes
Shoot the weird *** aliens
Even if it's all just the aftereffects of marijuana,
I'd like to smoke some with you
What do you say?
Will you be the Rick to my Morty?