I Am Afraid Sometimes

I am afraid sometimes.

My world is hell sometimes.

I am heterogeneous to the homogeneous, and not that I mind, but
In a drugged state is brought out the worst.
Eight years of therapy which helped none and counting.
Maturity and uncommon sense is the only cure, or drawing of the line between vice and virtue.
Unfortunate for me that line is chalk and susceptible to the rain.
And eight years of therapists pitted against the crossing of the line.
And like Caesar I crossed it.
Now the therapists think they help, to drag me away from the washed away bits.
Tell me how you feel and jazz.
I’d strap on a smile and bid farewell, step out of their office and
Over the line.
Glowing networks of “I understand” don’t mean anything
Unless you know the way into my brain you can’t offer help.
Because no one but me could ever fathom how to think like me.
And don’t change.
I can’t change.
“Help” is a rather ambiguous term.

Now I must chain me.
From things I say.
From things I do.
A simple ring would do the trick. I like it. a gift from Christmas.
It is a chain that I rubbed with the ‘chalk’ from the line,
I wear it on my thumb and say “Never forget” and I don’t,
As a representation of virtue and vice.
I wear it all through the day and someone calls me nice.
Nice.
Nobody’s ever called me nice.

Now
There is a constant noise inside my head,
Almost the sound of a vacuum cleaner
If one can picture that.
A sudden tug from across the room.
A paper needs its proper place.
A pencil needs it’s proper alignment.
Anything else is incorrect.
I stand in the middle and look all around
And then go around and fix it until I get stares.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t even know.
And then I sit down and pull my ring off. Because it doesn’t work
With this strange new thing.
And I am afraid.

It is a god.
It is correct, it has to be
Because history dictates that all divinity must be.
And I am almost its funnel from
The world of gods to
Us.
I am its drone, just someone
Who is controlled by a larger force
To make the world right.
To make the world right.

I could cover my hands in mud for weeks. Eat things off the floor if I had to.
But with the Ring-Off-Virus I couldn’t even work with my favorite type of pastels
Without my hands stinging.
And hurting.
And aching.
And suffocating.
I never thought anything besides lungs and throats could suffocate.
The only release is water
And my hands can finally breathe again
Breathing hands.
Who would have thought?
They don’t let me stop.
They just… don’t let me
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Whoever they are...

I couldn’t just sit there and watch everything
Glare at me.

It is war.



I can dwell in synesthesia for a moment here.
The basic number-color, I won’t mention. But also
When in sudden sharp pain, vivid black and white zigzags flash momentarily.

And that’s pain.

And pain is mostly who I am.