raw data

they ask me to collect the raw data: what hides behind these urges? how am I actually feeling? what do I actually need? I hide from myself a little too well and can't cough back the answers they want. all I'm being asked is to witness the experience. all I can do is let it be.

off ward

my time off ward outlives my time inside. I fill every moment I can with something other than being where I am / listening to myself / feeling what I say. cleaning reading groceries etc. whatever I need / can keep me and my mind from the mirror. being outside in this body stirs forgotten childhood feelings I could do without; of embarrassment, not wanting to be seen. everywhere I go I am passed by people exercising - running and cycling and just out from the gym. I wonder what they're thinking / why they're doing what they're doing / how much is for them or others / how much are they like me?

I miss the quiet walk down the hall from my bedroom to breakfast. I miss the nurses / trivia at the table / beige walls and nothing out of place / the lack of expectation beyond eating enough. I miss the table under the awning in the courtyard / the meals that weren't so scary / the once or twice a day the others managed to laugh. I miss the paper on my mirrors and the dreams that gave me secret leave between the hourly checks at night.

there's a limitless out here / a lack of boundaries beyond the ward. rules and time fly fluid I can sway a little more / a lot depending on the forecast / time of day. surveillance is a memory / can only do so much to keep me spinning / captive to the rules that kept me there.

the same facade

on Wednesday I ride to school under overcast skies full of potential / promising rain / clouds unwilling to cry just yet. the office is empty I have worn my collared shirt for nothing but at least I made it to my desk / got out of bed to play another day. on the screens I flip between jargon and the news, both heavy with the same facade of duty: a responsibility to work and think about the world / to better comprehend my own insignificance / to reconnect with what once fuelled the heart / to remember compassion. the nurse suggests it could just be distraction. working well above her call she says there's something missing between how I am and knowing how I got here. she thinks I'm yet to process my emotions and prescribes a breakdown at my own discretion. if she were a witch she'd fix this all but she's not and she can't. I have to face the lions without divine intervention.

on air

I listen to you talk about me on the radio. silly breakfast segment in memoriam for those lost to the city that I moved to. you even use my name. the story sounds a little different in the studio. I like the way you change the plot to read the way you want. it's nice to hear your voice the way you want the world to hear it. did you want me to listen? did you know that I would? does it matter I still wonder what you really think? so much between what we say what we mean. I wear your carabiner; you keep my picture on your wall.

my window of tolerance

somewhere between the hyper and the hypo we can build a frame to water down the overwhelm. try to understand the feelings where they come from why they're here. ask yourself: how wide is my window of tolerance and what might it take to break it open let in a little more light? the window takes different shapes through the span of any given day shifting at the whim of hidden chemical agendas. I can only feign control of the panes as they change how much I can see of my own simulation. the plan is beyond my understanding I play puppet sitting at the table take directions from whichever voice outscreams the other over any given meal.

my window of tolerance never ceases to surprise, opening and closing at commands unheard from someone else. the view shrinks and expands each new aspect ratio a novelty to marvel from my front row seat to life beyond the skull. there is so much more to see.

still screaming on the floor

in my dream I’m running from the promises I've made. they show me photographs of all my different faces, each a little longer sadder worse for wear than the last. the final photo is a mirror. I scream at the monster I don’t want to recognise I throw him to the ground. he shatters into slices of the ceiling reflecting shards of sunlight still screaming on the floor. down the corridor I lock myself in my shower run the water too cold not loud enough to drown the embers the photos of the faces I have grown. rage. I scream without a sound ears to listen relief any reason to stop. someone knocking on the door. there are tasks needing tending dishes to wash to dirty again. I look for a trapdoor to only shrink the room. walls start closing ceiling lowers I think about the other ways that people spend their time beyond their cells and scheming torture for themselves. I remember being pulled by my brother tasked to take me back into the ward. he pulls me hands under arms dragging feet kicking limp he is gentle while I plead he listen to ignore the doctor’s orders let’s go home I’ll get better I promise just please don’t let them take me back. we both know that he can’t there is nothing he can do but listen to the doctors they only want to help to make things easier. I cry into his shoulder. he tells me it’s okay, this will pass, I am only ever where I’m meant to be.

the angels keep singing

the angels sing through the walls. consumers cover ears with blankets and headphones their eyes with slides or neon blue light projecting liquid crystal their minds with lunch and regret and themselves. maybe a little too early for trivia card games divine intervention. blankets work for three of five soft snoring, one quiet shaking leg over another. invisible ticking someone’s watch a little louder than sleep than breathing. the angels keep singing next door.