there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.
but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.
because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.
because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.
i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skin
and my mother says it's because
i'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.
she said i need a psychiatrist.
my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.
i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.
i don't want it to rain anymore.
used to, i liked the rain,
because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.
now, i want to know where i belong.
my father says this is a false relapse.
that i will fall back into whatever keeps me up at night
and holds the knife to my wrist
or the food off the plate or the fingernails to my skin
i tell him that if he can believe in a god he has never seen,
he sure as hell should be able to believe in me.
he says i might never be okay.
i'm not sure what okay means.
maybe it's like disney world and you can only
know when you've been,
but i also think that we are all broken
and the only reason we hate other broken people for being broken
is because it's not our broken, and maybe our broken pieces
are like snowflakes because we're all
precious and original on the insides, and when we break
we break differently, so we hate the different broken people
because they will never understand our type of broken
and we will never be able to understand their's.
today someone asked me if i was high,
because that's how dilated my pupils were.
i just smiled and told him that
i threw my bleach out with their expectations.