It’s going to be okay

I remember feelings like that

going through a tunnel

about to collapse

but it didn’t

and I’m out

It’s always like that

so I think it will be like that

it has to be

it always is

unless of course

it does collapse on you

as you wait for the ending

I don’t know what that’s like yet

breathing from behind

the glass

messages await me

but I

just look glaze

over the top

coat instead

i am strawbery jam

being exiled

from knife

to English muffin

a rugged one

cold in its center

and burnt around the edges

and there’s not enough

of me

to cover all its bumps.

i remember the day

my anxiety crawled up the wall

so hard

I lost the ability to read

Sometimes I still can’t

see the words

as sounds

but instead

as bacteria

swimming around my pupils

with no goal in mind.

You were too young

 to be looked at seriously

until one day,

just a turning over of a tea cup

and now you're too old

to be looked at

at all.

Before then

with them

the things they’d bring home

snacks

were alive

wriggling gummy worms

salted in sweets

and corn with firery stripes

When there was

no bringer of treats

but a whole store

stacks of worms

they were all dead

I can close my eyes

and transform back

to before

I’m so close i can smell it

when you act as my Stargate

But instead

the shift

transforms when I sleep

wind so strong

it’s blowing horns in my window

and I open the door

and the wind is so fierce

Earth roaring

as it spins out of control

and I know it’s the same as a funeral

They’re not going to wake up

and the spinning isn’t going to stop

it’s going to whirl

until I’m wrapped in plastic too.

Avoid thinking

about all the earwigs

and spiders and centipedes

that you know

crawl behind

the paintings, the pictures

the twinkle lights, the feathers

but as you drift inside

the infested cave of sleep

you can feel their presence

all around you

until you blink them away.

A shot in the gut

and it spatters

like a red galaxy

against the wall

tracing constellations

through the wreckage

because there are some

beautiful patterns

that just can’t be chaos.

Dreamzzz

Inverted life

tries to make sense of 

what doesn’t

even when your brain

tries to console you

that it does

It knows better

cause

you can only

shut the screen door

on that kind of air

and it’s gonna seep through

as you slumber

& crawl into your pores

like microscopic ants

to infect you with

the truth you turn

your cheek from.

Cutting images

out of a catalog

through screen

for events that will never

be

piling clothing internally

to match each painful grinding

of the brain

even though it won’t

grease its wheels

the racks are full

I close the lid

and try to breathe in

and live

with the fabric

that surrounds me like ghosts

instead

Not a sentient being

just an extension 

an arm

meant to scratch the faces

of the main veins

with pride

or pity

or irritants

A farm on my eyelids

clucks, clicks

when I loose track

a track star in a bottle

a chicken in the well

she said not to hold them at all

but I do so

as it blasts Christmas lights

into oblivion.

Locked inside in a memory

as wall-less as the sky

yet still confined

cloud around ankle

until the blue of the atmosphere

flips

& drags me into the blue below.

I hate flowers

when they surround people

who aren’t

I’d rather just be

the weeds besides them

instead of besides the weeds

within

& I’d like to climb in

the foliage forest

like “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids”

and sink into it again

without the audience around

picking up grasshoppers and snakes

and breathing when time

is simply the way that the tall grass blows.

When I fold into myself

and come out the other side

it’s the same

but reverse

and repeated

a mirror image

going the other way

inverted but correct

a carousel lights up

when the lights are out

only for me

but the rumblings

of the ponies

stuck doing circles

can stretch

laps beyond

reflections

and onto the fair ground

of the others.

Permission to skip

being a light bulb

being a cog

can’t you pause too

just for a little bit?

If I shut off the lights

and freeze the machines

will you go in the breakroom

and actually take a break?

Will you actually read a book

and not just longingly look

at the machines on pause

through the glass

because the cogs in your ribs

are still running?

Will you think

about wiping the prints off them

with a cloth?

They’ve been there too long

Fitting in a hand

in the head

but still so big

you’re spilling over

that hand

gushing out ears

when standing

in front of glass

& the shrinking you feel

you know

just never seems to reflect

Dream in a shopping cart

wheels squeaking in stomach

hardened but

dripping

nicotine-filled valley

turns instantly virginal

with lace mountains

and veils for rivers

but only for a minute

before the crud comes off the wheels.

In the graveyard of my stomach

there’s always a few plots

seemingly fresh

dirt, no foliage

but the years on the stone

say otherwise

Manipulated in the moment

willingly

an inhalation of empathy

produces a spiderweb

of creativity

when I freeze it

it’s not a mask

it’s real

but only when I thaw

can I see my duped self

so I can reveal their selves

& it’s needed to draw it out.