the thing about black and white
hard print no greyscale
all winter no summer and especially vice versa
maybe not especially,
maybe not for plath, maybe not for me, historically,
but this sticky summer is calling my too-long name
the trees are whispering to me like they
never really ever did before
every single sap-filled sweaty bad odor no-saying-goodbyes moment
every summer second is a
second too long, and painful
i go to sleep and awaken on my matted hair
convince myself to shower every so often
only because the alternative is worse
maybe i'm not crazy just a
little too decompensated for a brain this traumatized
i wake up to a new day and pretend again
i'm winning every second i'm alive
and losing every second i'm asleep, not sober
drunk on vodka and/or my own racing thoughts
kept still behind my eyes with yellow flecks
that i was always told to call "golden"
"because it sounds better,"
i can't really keep track of the day to day, the second to second,
the what is real and what is not,
i can't talk to myself to soothe any more
i won't breathe in and feel calm,
my heart races. it is unfair. like so much else.
this world placed a burden upon each and every human
and some of us are given so much, some of us so little
it seems bizarre but not everyone
even keeps the weight on their back.... some of us
hide it in our pockets until we are dead
i hide a piece of hot metal under my tongue
it burns like the solder when i was eleven years old
it stays like the illnesses that won't leave
it stays longer than the people that constantly grow weary
i am a force to be reckoned with. but water, and fire,
and summer, and heat, they do not mix
so take my body far from here
lock it up in a place which is cool and safe
i may never leave
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