Undiagnosed

I am a trend, 

The young woman affected

By a myriad of undiagnosed 

Illnesses, relating, relating, relating- 

I am foremost depression,

My soul is concave,

Pulling always towards

The center of the earth.

It dips enough

For the weight of my

Life to sit and push

Air from my lungs

Until it comes only in sips…

From these dark sheets 

I become anxiety,

Held in the bars

Of a homemade cage,

Too shaken to answer 

A call or read a text,

“They’ll find out,” my mind

Repeats, “they KNOW they 

Know they know they know-” 

Then I am manic and 

Filled with spontaneous 

Magic, it’s fire and warmth

Licking up my innards 

And spouting from these eyes!

The world is completely

Within my reach,

I have no fears and 

Leap from dream to dream to dream to- 

-I dissociate-

What was once full of

Charcoal warmth

Slowly turns to ash

In my palms,

And I draw stick figures

On the walls of my mind

With a skinny index finger

Dipped in the remnants

Of my own inspirations.

None of this is as real as I thought it would be. 

I am undiagnosed professionally,

But only because I fear-

I fear above all else 

What my mind is capable of 

Creating, of consuming, of captivating-

 

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The Work Week

Sometimes 

It’s okay to pride yourself

On the fact you’re still alive

At 7pm,

That you gradually survived 

Another dull, ordinary day. 

It’s an accomplishment 

To know you didn’t crawl

Completely out of your skin,

And leave your dermis 

Spread like a starfish 

On the lawn.

You didn’t pluck hairs

From your head 

One by one, and drop them 

Out your car window

Until your scalp itched with fire.

You didn’t look at every 

Turn or sharp curb

With morbid interest,

Wondering how loud the tire

Would blow when you crashed 

Your car into a lamp post.

Sometimes

It’s okay to trust that 

You managed something strong

Which many others did not,

you held onto hope 

Just enough 

For this Work Week Wednesday.

Love games 

It’s unfair where women are put,
On a narrow little shelf
made to contain us. 
When we’re left alone
And try to reach out- 
We are simply too needy,
Too damned needy.

Yet, when women are gone out 
For a night on the town-
A lack of communication 
Is enough to hang them,
To brand them sluts
And those fucking whores,
Those fucking whores out there-

The only time “feelings” are
Important are when they 
Are yours-
The conversation becomes serious
When the men decide
That maybe- now- it’s serious,
It wasn’t the right time before.

But if a woman takes a love-step
Before a man
She’s deludedly mad, and 
Should take these steps back- 
Clearly he’s not wanting to 
settle down, but don’t fret-
You’re too young for something serious, just yet.

So Women are put on the bottom shelf,
Gently dusted off when used 
As vessels for what he’s drinking tonight,
And what they’re drinking tonight- 
We’re rinsed out when empty
And set back down to wait-
Until the next luncheon-
The next date.