The Nonsensical Mumblings Of A Lost Mind

During for sure, but also after.

Cleaning up the mess you made.

The broken locks, the strew of projects, the illnesses contracted and the piles of trash you thought were gold.

The relationships, the broken promises, the awful things you said and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to give.

Endless scrubbing and apologizing and apologizing and never-minding.

And maybe they should have forgiveness on principle of no take backs.

And maybe you should never be forgiven on principle of no take backs.

I’m on a tire swing

hanging from a branch.

I guess I could jump,

but I don’t know where I’d land.

Is there a heaven?

Is there a hell?

Or is the afterlife

the bottom of a well?

I swing up high,

then swing back down low.

The warmth feels like fire,

the cool feels like snow.

Sometimes the view

is just all too much.

Am I in too deep,

or am I out of touch?

I’m in a tire swing

hanging from a branch.

I guess I could jump,

but I don’t know where I’d land.

Some day the tree will die,

and the branch will rot.

Some day I can fall down,

and it won’t be my fault.

No one could blame me,

what was I to do?

I couldn’t stop the rotting;

I didn’t have to choose.

Some day the rope might snap,

then I’ll be long gone.

They couldn’t say

I did anything wrong.

I’m on a tire swing,

hanging from a branch.

I know I can’t jump.

I understand.

Trapped on a tire swing,

one might tend to dream

of learning how to fly,

or learning not to scream.

I’m on a tire swing,

hanging from a branch.

I guess I could jump,

Not that I don’t deserve love, just that the type of love that I require takes immense effort.

For that reason I know I should not blame all of those who did not have the stamina.

Despite that, I find myself wishing they could have,

Or wishing I were smaller:

A token easily carried in a pocket, easily held in a hand, easily kissed and placed back in a personal and secure place, nestled in next to the other important things.

I am not a token.

I will never be a token.

Even when I try my best - pull all of my extremities in and contort myself until I’m as small as possible - I can only hold that shape for so long, and I’m still far too heavy to lift.

I know that I am difficult to love.

For that reason I thank you for loving me,

I don’t remember moving in; Hell, I can’t even find a possible entry-way. I’ve lived here for years though. I noticed where I was for the first time when I was 16, but I’ve lived here for longer. That much I know.

There’s a bright, flashing button at the end of my single-room-not-so-apartment that opens a trap door. I’m tempted to press it.

It’s a wet kind of heat in here. The kind that fills up your lungs and makes breathing feel like a chore rather than the necessity (and honestly, privilege) that it is. The kind that makes your throat feel funny, and your stomach sit uncomfortably. There’s a way to make the air fresher, but…

At least I get to see the people I love. They’re the only reason I haven’t pressed the button with full commitment. I’d miss them, and… I don’t want to disappoint them. Sometimes the temptation makes me feel a bit guilty - that’s the real reason I don’t press it. If I feel guilty for wanting to, that’s probably a good reason not to. Still…

I’m glad I can see them - really - but sometimes I wish it were through a window. A *smaller* window. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, it’s all transparent. They see in, I see out - that’s fine and all, except that everyone else can see in too. Everyone can see Everything. And on top of that, for some God-Forsaken Reason, I moved in without any clothes. No clothes, no curtain, not even a blanket (not that I need one, as I said, the heat is STIFLING). It’s just a bit…

Anyway. I wish there were at least something to Do up here. A deck of cards, a pen and a piece of paper, I’d settle for a puzzle. Sometimes, I fog over the glass with my breath and tell the onlookers a joke, a fun fact, a poem, a story… Sometimes, I write out !PLEH, and slam my fist against the wall until someone looks up. They always try to help me escape… I don’t think there’s any actual way that I can get out though, other than the button.

I look down at the spikes (there are several rows of spikes right below the trap door), and wonder what it would be like. I wonder if it would be worth it. Even if it ends up being worse, it would at least be New, right? And then the guilt sets in, and then a quiet part of myself says I wouldn’t have to feel guilt, or anything else, if I went through with it. But that only leads to more guilt, so I curl up on the opposite end from the button and write jokes with my breath on the floor.

Not good enough to love.

Darling, tell me something new.

Hold me in your arms.

You want my body not my heart;

I’ve been fantasizing about death in the same way that when I was young I would fantasize about being a princess…

I’ve been imagining my last breath in the same way that when I was young I imagined someday learning I had super powers…

I’ve been planning my end in the same way that when I was young I practiced my autograph for when I became a famous singer…

I’ve been thinking of apologies in the same way that when I was young I would think of rhymes…

I’ve been practicing smiles in the same way that when I was young I would play with my dolls…

I’ve been calling for help in the same way that when I was young I’d beg for a bandaid…

I love people.

I love people so hard and so much

That I fall to pieces when they don’t love me.

I love people so big

That when they can’t see me,

I feel as though I don’t exist.

I don’t hate people-

I just get hurt when they don’t care about me.

Hurt fuels anger.

Anger can look like hatred.

But if I hated them,

For yesterday to return.

It’s a scary sort of patience

That leaves me forgetting all the hurt.

I can stand on my own two feet

My skin is a cage…

It’s something foreign and scary

That I want to escape.

Some days

I can barely stand

To go about my day

While not recognizing my hands.

Some days

My bones will scream-

I try not to listen

When they beg to be freed.

Some days

I can’t stand the sound

That escapes my lips

Like a soul from the ground.

Some days

It hurts to exist

As a stranger to myself

And if I had only one wish,

It’d be :

Some day,

But now is a place that I barely know

Seeing some people I have outgrown

Haven’t heard from them in a while, though I have the same phone

And I’m smiling all the way because-

The past is a place I visit in my dreams

Cause it’s full of people that once believed in me

And when I see your ghost , I promise to wave

Billboards advertising all my regrets

Doing things that I hate cause it’s good to have friends

They put up a mural to cover the stench

Of the dogs on the street, starving to death

But I’m smiling all the way because-

It’s comforting to know that it’s not the same

Cause at least then I’m not the only one who changed

Hello, I’m Xander,

You may not remember

That we’ve spoke before.

I’ve been working on communicating my needs.

The hardest part is finding out what I need.

Solutions are hard to find, and even harder if you can’t quite find the problem.

I’m sure you can understand why I need to solve them.

Why is a difficult question.

I don’t know why I feel certain things.

I’ve sat, and tried, but every question rings

Unanswered.

I know what makes it worse.

Everything that IS.

The lights scream,

My clothes claw at my skin,

My skin leeches to my muscles,

Any sound feels like it’s shrinking my bones from within,

And even the floor against my feet feels like an attack.

You see,

I’ve tried asking for advice,

Asking what to do, asking what THEY do

When the world comes alive.

They seem a bit confused,

They seem a bit sorry,

Then they ask how they can help.

It’s sweet, don’t get me wrong,

But surely you can see what’s wrong?

Why that doesn’t really help?

I smile (I’ve gotten very good at putting on that show)

And I tell them it’s okay,

I’m better now,

And I wait for them to say

I can rely on them,

Even as I watch the relief cross their face

When they see I’m not going to.

I smile

And I tell them thank you.

For listening. For helping.

They didn’t help but

I smile and I tell them they made me feel better

By just being there.

The lights keep screaming.

My skin keeps leeching.

My bones keep shrinking.

I say this only to assure you

That I have tried

To be better, to get better,

And now I’m communicating my needs

By saying I NEED help.

By saying I NEED to know

That thought has always hurt;

But now I think it hits deeper,

Tangled in your words.

I want to be worth more

Than anyone else to someone….

I want to be the first choice,

Instead of a second or third option…

I’d like to be prioritized,

And held like something special;

And it’s not because I’m scared you’ll leave,

It’s because I’m scared you’ll settle.

I’d rather be vehemently hated,

Than someone you only tolerated…

“I don’t want you to think my trust issues are only with you.”

Don’t you see, it hurts just as much to be lumped in with the group?

I’ll always only be one of many,

And never the exception.

I don’t do things wrong, just not quite right,

So I fade out of your vision.

I think that’s the part that hurts the most,

How easy it is to disappear…

I’m not the one you’d think of first

When you need a listening ear,

So it’s no surprise that I can easily back away…

Is it worth being runner up, if it at least means I can say:

I’ve never been the best friend,

Red flags meant attack;

The fabric was a harsh wool, that scratched at my skin,

And any time I saw it, the flag warned me of incoming violence.

Red flags meant defend;

It meant safety was at stake, mine and those I loved.

It said gather all your strength, so you can rise above.

The flags I see now are red;

But the texture is not the same. It’s smooth, and thin,

And soft when I dare let it touch my skin.

The flags I see now are red;

But they are meant to bring comfort and keep me warm,

Because they aren’t flags at all, they’re blankets. Different message, different form.

They fill me with an unjustified fear

That I try to smother.

Red blankets say “come here”,

Red flags say “run for cover”.

It’s hard to see the difference sometimes;

It’s hard to admit there is one.

They look so similar in my eyes,

I torture myself with songs that sound like your stories.

I still use your jokes, and your terms of phrase.

I hope that’s okay…

You’re not quite gone enough for me to heal.

You’re not quite here enough for me to not hurt.

I’d want you to stay… but I’m not sure that wouldn’t be worse.

And it’s like a broken promise

For you to not be here by my side.

And it’s like a lie.

You were always great at lies…

But now those lies have been passed around, and belong to someone new.

The fresh mind, fresh heart

Of whatever poor soul now looks up to you.

If I could warn them of just one thing- no, two -

It would be stay unpredictable,

And make sure they can always be of use

Because you surround yourself with tools, not companions,

And what does anyone do with a broken tool, other than toss it away?

Because you were right when you said you don’t know how to love, you were right when you said that neither did I, and neither of us have learned how to since that day.

Your praise was rare, which made it much more sweet,

But recurrent enough that the criticism could still knock me off my feet.

Well, I’ve learned to stand,

I think I’m finding the balance

That I always envied in you.

The view from the top

Is much less scary,

And it gives a much better view.

It hurt me when you cast me away,

And it hurt more when you never looked back,

Corners, blankets, closets,

Silence, darkness, cold faucets,

Heaviness, weightlessness, curled on the edge,

4 am, doctors notes, any broken pledge,

Mushrooms, bullets, dirt,

Broken twigs, crumbled leaves, hurt,

Sleepiness, tangled yarn, collapsing once again,

Trusting cats, cloudy eyes, rain falling at days end

Screaming, sobbing, tree bark,

Slowness, gravel, lone spark,

Iced water, lukewarm tea, black and white thoughts,

Smooth texture, metal scissors, anything left to rot,

Cardboard, your breath, movement,

Tight hugs, lost things, stillness,

Slip on shoes, muddy palms, counting every inhale,

Dribbling down your chin like sparkling wine

To help you forget your mistakes,

So long as you keep repeating mine.

Keep my words in your head,

Melding your brain to your skull with the sharp heat of steel,

Not daring to think on what they could mean,

Not daring to possibly feel.

Keep my confidence on your tongue,

I know it tastes sour with unapologetic imperfection you’ve never known,

And I know it isn’t a common cuisine in this culture,

For a person to love themselves down to the bone.

Keep my movements in your eyes,

The colors of my steps blinding you from ignorance and putting you at blame,

Because now you know you know

You’ve never had to be the same.

Keep my songs in your ears,

My cries of joy, and pain, and anger alerting your fight or flight,

Because we were taught to stay silent

Out of fear that we aren’t right.

Keep my victories in your hands,

And feel the sharp edges, rough patches, and smooth pits that lie in each.

So you can understand the truth,

So you can understand the words I preach.

Keep me in your senses,

But that’s all you’ll ever have of me.

Never my soul, never my mind, never my control.