for some reason, at CCYWC, I could not stop writing about psychotic break-downs

and i remember you, far far away. no where near the lights or the sounds, too far into your own head. you could not remember your name, my name, our address. the cab driver had to rely on words stuttered through uncontrolled lips and you always forgot to pay. morning would come and i would find plates on the kitchen floor, the goldfish drowned in anti-freese, forks and knives used to rip apart couch cushions. you insisted that they were after you, trying to find you to
pin you down and force a funnel down your throat and
fill your body with sand, just so you could not run away.
and then your eyes. your eyelids peeled off with razor blades, then duct tape applied to throbbing irises. you could not be seeing anything. your hands smashed with hammers and your feet bound with wire.
they were always after you and you could see them in the corner of your eye, running, running, running towards you, but when you snapped your neck around to see, they would be gone.
you said the pills they gave you were cyanide, not xanax and you said the place they took you was a prison not a hospital and you promised me, promised me, promised me that you would get out and everything would be fine—but not as long as they were out there with their razor blades and funnels and wire. all you had to do was stop them and then honey, it would be okay. but they were after you, after you, after you and they were in your head, their ink on your hands, their sand between your toes and you were too far gone.

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~ by Anna on 6.13.2011.