Nothing Makes Sense: a rant

I woke up in a fishbowl, I woke up in the wind, I woke up in a cage next to the only one I wanted. I fell deep into lithium dreams, I fell into the waters of my mind, I swam and swam until I had no more strength, and then I woke up in a fishbowl. 

I can't explain the way it works, the smoke cloud blurring my vision every moment, the time ticking by in unreality, eternity and infinity flowing like carbon monoxide, poisoning me at my deepest, I just can't breathe like this anymore. There's no one to understand me, no one to walk through this with me, the forest dark and lonely, the metaphors tired and cheesy, the English language incompetent to describe, impotent in its vocabulary, and I just can't try to a explain this anymore.

I'm ranting and I don't care.

It feels like I'm thirsty but there is no water. I'm thirsty for reality but I just can't touch it. My feet hover constantly, two inches above ground, and how I long to feel something solid under me, but all I feel is air. 

Something is amiss and I can't fix it. Something is broken and neither can you. Everything is nothing when we're swimming in oxygen. Nothing makes sense when you live in my skull or love in my rib-cage. Nothing.

Nothing. 

The Fire Won't Burn Me Now

The fire in the coat closet of my mind has become too wild to contain. Hungry for more than moth balls and faux fur, it laps at the walls and singes their white into a toasted-marshmallow shade, filling up my skull with the burning of matter, eating up instincts and disfiguring the paths my thoughts walk, charring flowers and incinerating gardens, greedily spreading itself out like a rising inferno-tide, hurling things across rooms with the full force of its desire. I have meditated in the middle of this metaphor before, swallowed alive by the insane flames of my neurons, falling in ashes back to the ground, floating, cremated and free, but here, this time, it hurts, but it never scatters me; it chokes, but refuses to take me completely, to make me disappear.

The Other Side of Wreckage

The wolf on my finger is fading, and the pain is turning to grey along with it. The hatred I harbor, I try to put to death, but my heart never sleeps and my mind grips too tight to

just

let

go.

He was a fire, a beautiful act of arson that incinerated all the good in my being and burned the bridge along with me. But after the carnage, there's room for new things to grow. The ecosystem of the spirit slowly wakes from the ashes and rises from the charred floor. Shouldn't I just be grateful that he gave me the chance to begin again? 

I am grateful, but the scars still run red. I work to forgive the matches and the gasoline, but pointing fingers is easier than saying "Go in peace." 

I found love on the other side of the wreckage, and in my deepest burns, I still hope he finds love, too. 

The Last Word on the Matter, a spoken word poem

The worst days of my life were spent in that apartment, locked up in a prison trying to run away from it, worshipping the ground you walked on, but you were hollow, giving me those icy looks so hard to swallow, refusing to touch me even when I scooted toward you, losing out on moments I just wanted you to share too. The baby was kicking, but I felt so lonely, every night I was just wishing you'd roll over here and hold me, but your brain was broken, the baby wasn't even yours, you felt like a child going through a divorce, not ready for the ring that I tried to throw you into, and the venom in my words wasn't really meant to hurt you. You ran to the bars and the women just to escape, your girl was at home but you told her to just wait, things will be better when the baby gets here, and things were better, but I never got over the fear. The silence you cradled, into the TV you stared, I handed you a plate but your appetite was never there. You were doing me wrong, behind my turned back, and when the truth came out, I lost the sanity I didn't have. No matter how you said you'd make it up as the years passed, you never did stop acting like I was a pain in your ass. I never forgave you anyway, and I should have tried harder, but in the end I wanted clarity for me and for my daughter. Maybe breaking promises is never really okay, but I still feel justified in walking away. It feels like I'm dreaming 'cause he loves the way I need, and I hope you find fulfillment out there wandering the streets. 

Two Days, or, One Simple Sentence to Explain How In Love I Am

My feeling that he was everything I needed encapsulated in one body was completely confirmed by a series of forty-eight hours in a row that I tragically spent without him.