That feeling of fever.
I have a soul fever,
those hot-cold chills
you can't stand.
The temperature a
shower sometimes reaches
that makes you feel
so ill,
you just want to double over.
A soul ache,
and I can't find a band-aid
big enough to cover it,
no sutures strong enough to
close it,
no doctor skilled enough
patch it up
clean.
Because knowing
you're torn
is so much worse
than letting it fester,
under your skin
without your awareness.
I am fully aware
that pieces of me tug
and break off
and collide
and are exploded
regularly.
And it hurts.
Physically
sometimes.
Sometimes I can't get a breath,
sometimes I can't see straight,
or my chest won't beat right
or I will just ache in my entire
physical being.
And I know why,
and I know it's not
really right.
To hurt that way.
Some people say great art only comes
from suffering,
immense suffering.
So many artists had diseases
that made them insane.
I don't have black sores,
I am not bedridden or blind
or have lead poisoning.
But I do have open wounds
somewhere inside me,
because I can feel them,
in the supermarket.
In the shower,
in the car,
anywhere I am.
A burst of pain.
I will hear waves in head,
smell the salt in my hair
and my chest rips open,
ragged and frayed.
I see your face,
and something inside of me
can't work.
I know I am a failure
when I take my pills
and I can't breathe.
Does it make me crazy
to feel this pain,
for my body
to be a punching bag
for worldly things?
-------------------
And I feel like a failure,
when I take my three pills,
and this week
I had to do this ritual
in front of my family.
And I couldn't help but think,
"I disappoint them."
Because who wants a
daughter on pills
who is sad
or too silly.
Who makes chicken noises
and reads all the billboards
along the roadside.
Why do they keep me
like they do?
Why can they love this
person so dependent
on medicines and fears
and books.
But I still take them
because I am scared
of what might happen
if I don't.
And I can't deal with the sleeplessness
that comes, have to push back the
sadness as long as I can.
-------------------
I read a beautiful book called
"Diary" by Chuck Palahnuik.
(Why has nobody made it a movie yet????)
And it was absurd,
and scary, and a fairytale,
and statement on art, and advertising.
--------------------
I am sad now,
for a dumb reason-
I lost 75% of all of my music.
I don't have any one way to get it back,
or even remember what all I had.
Because that music meant a lot
to me. Because I missed listening to
good songs everyday
in my car.
Because it's hard to encompass how I
feel without it.
Yet another part of me
is missing,
floating above the stratosphere
somewhere I cannot reach.
I miss lying in bed
with a soft lullaby song
with guitars and twinkly
sounding things.
-------------------
A week I was gone,
from you, blog.
I was in mountains with bears
and accents and moonshine.
With arcades and funnel cakes
and mini-golf.
With my family and waterslides
and the creek.
it wasn't bad, it was nice.
But now I am ready to
get away from them
for a little.
I'm not ready for the impending
future,
and I am just not ready.
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