Words on the Door

I don't dare raise a hand to that foggy door because I know exactly what I'll write and even if I resist writing it, I know exactly what I'll think (which I think too much already) and want to write it. But I can't because I wanna say it but I can't. And I want, I want, I want,  but this is so much more; this is I need and I hate that but I'm terrible and it's true. The door knows it all and when I leave it, it feels so sorry for me that its arms of steam wrap me up and hold me; if only for a moment until the mist clears from my eyes and from the room. And they promise me they'll make the words on the door disappear soon. And maybe if they were just a little more buff and could speak just a little louder they would promise me that they would make all my pains go away; like the words on the door. Just like the words on the door...

J.

Unimaginative

And it's like I've got to hold onto something for dear life even though things are changing so much. But she's really not that pretty with her hair pulled back and I realized the month marker in the hospital (and would have been okay with the unintelligent lady with the mesmerizing accent telling me something devastating) but I didn't cry in that moment because on the moon there's no gravity to pull down my tears. But my world will keep spinning no matter how I decorate. Maybe I should start to replay a different quote and even though I lay on my hand so abnormally, I'd really like to strangle the barks in mid night air. Because I wish for time in between and the drum I hear is not the beat I feel and the circle I see is not the loop I'm in. But don't let someone else decide your emotions because even though I tried to help I don't know what I'm doing because the lady with the voice of a child and the nice white coat hasn't helped. The cat that she spoke of was her only companion but who could tell you it's this and that? With the hands and the eyes all a part of the body attached to the brain with the mind and that feeling all the way through. Who knows what I'm saying? It's dyslexia of the nervous system stemmed from the chemical makeup in the brain that isn't quite right. Or so I told her as I tried explaining the problem through a neutral third party that I know had some effect from multiple sources who witnessed the aftermath. But when does it end? He wonders as I try to reassure him but at the same time, I'm stripping it all away. Not knowing what he really wants but knowing that I'd like to know for myself the answer to the question to which I led him falsely astray...

J.