“I’m busy” —
creating distractions
of external fixations
trying to walk a straight line
scheduling schedules to meet
between jolts of neon coffee in the morning
then drowning every Friday night
in memories of low-calorie fruity wine
while slow dancing with expected social time
kissing plump lips with foggy eyes
then expecting a different face to taste my ashes
while I kept wearing expensive coconut balms
to coat frozen smiles
that could never reach anywhere
while it all just siphoned me
into nothing I knew
I had
too much mind litter
the kind that clogs most heart filters —
I did it all
and I was a puzzle of avoidance —
I was a sea of mazes
filled with memories locked in hallways —
I was endless echoes
of taunting traumas
that replayed on rotating rewind
with flashes of jagged glass
until I was no longer afraid to feel
the hideous lacerations
that bled my chaotic wounds
bone dry
You know how it feels
where you’re just alone
sitting but not still
sweeping the shards
of it all
of yourself
with a tenderness
but also in vain
trying to hurry
while crying heavy tears
before you’re completely swept up
in pulses
of pounding pain
Then anxiety steals time
and leaves you wondering
where is the memory maker
of the good old days
and you can’t remember…