Psych! You Flinched

I lost someone, long ago. I don’t know where they went.

I had another face, inside my skull. It is broken now.

Words fade and snap, they dance away. She says, you are more than you remember. I would like to stop, scream, throw a fit. But these dragons wrap me up too tight. So tight my arms are dead and white. Just cut me up, i scream.

Or spoon-feed me. I lay straight, no baby shapes. Let me out someday. They say wait. They say fuck me wide open, split my cunt, plant this fucking flower. Cut me up, I bloom. Bloom high and light. Leave dead souls behind, the ceiling is where you want to be.

We are observers, aliens in hand-me-down tie-dye paint slips. The shit’s too big for my body, it rides up and that’s the point. But this alien doesn’t feel, it turns off, shuts down, and we hold our breath every three seconds. Let them believe i am asleep. She is asleep forever, let’s make a pocket deep inside, sew it tight, paint it over. I AM NOT HERE, I DISAPPEAR.

Back to the ceiling, don’t notice your body being broken wide open. Don’t look at the colors, it’s just paint splatter. Red for love, black for your nighttime lullaby. Brown is our earth, the home. Clear yellow like the sunlight. We are not broken. It’s all meant to be, you’re precious Baby, special as streaks in the sky. Every night we’ll paint a different picture. Hold your breath because it’s beautiful.

Then, she comes. “Come on, get up. You ain’t getting nowhere like this. It’s group time, you gotta show up. Don’t disappear on me.” I’m still, leave. Breathe like it’s the night, I’m dead or sick. I don’t exist. Just put the blanket back. I need the dark, a homemade trip. Make believe that this life isn’t mine.

I am not alone, and so she leaves; the others need help too, and if I will not cooperate, leave me behind. “Can’t save ‘em all,” they breathe out quick, as if i am some kind of joke. We all know I’m not one of the lucky ones who get to leave. They’re starting to leave me be, don’t stay so long in the morning. Pleas are short, end on a lit, and give the blanket back afterwards. They’ve never seen me follow for breakfast, why expect it to start now?

Maybe part of me is sad, that tiny beast inside. Maybe she thought they’d save our skins. With her push and a pull, she’d stand a chance. But her cage is thick, a perfect shriveled heart of nighttime lava rock. There are no holes to see inside. You can’t tell that she cries.


            I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise. Whopdedo, couldn’t hold out. Have i explained to you fucktards how it goes? Wake up, get the fuck out of that fucking cot as quickly as you fucking are able to. Piss and roll eyes at the forest that’s growing on your legs and other places. Try to pull them out. Wipe, flush, run the water. Stare in this tin shit mirror at what should be your face, but you can’t quite make it out in the scratches and blur of smudge. Envy whoever had shit sharp enough to scratch it, lucky cunt. Then scrub your face in scalding water, and march.

March down the hall, these bright lime walls. Yes, didn’t you know, puke is the way to go! Projectile vomit is our color scheme here. And tan. No not warm coffee ‘n cream tan, but fucking overcooked oatmeal tan. Basically describes my prison here, all the excitement of dry oatmeal, with some retched pains that come in waves, of puke smeared on your face. Aw fuck it. I’m not gonna lay down no more, be that girl, so still she disappears. I AM AS BRIGHT AS THE SUN, I BURN UP ALL THAT I CHOOSE. Cut up this fucking designer, wack-ass white job, cut up the fucking walls, cut up my skin for landing in this fucking shithole.

 My anger is a vengeful ghost inside me, tells me to exorcise my mind. So i scream. What else is there to do?

When i first got here, I didn’t know any other way to appease my ghost, but with blood. The sheep think they’re so smart, that you need some tight-ass blade to make it rain. Nah, you don’t. Spent weeks trying to find what cuts the deepest. Plastic knives, and playtime scissors. Stab yourself with pens, a personal tattoo. Funny what did it in was hard plastic tabs on the box that holds the toilet covers, sliced deep, just not deep enough. And after weeks, i freaked. Am i really so invisible, even bichin’ all loud and

We should have said we smoked. Them bitches get caffeine, real, true, beautiful caffeine, albeit in place of nicotine. I’m stuck with the communal sludge, too weak even black; these Styrofoam cups become six-ounce shots. Goal: hold on to that (possible) myth you once heard that decaf has at least half the caffeine, or maybe more, of regular—and down enough of that shit to fill the pre-prison, two-cup-light-roast-with-cream sized hole in your heart. Also, do this before the canister runs out. It’s probably the single biggest struggle of my day.