The Madness Vase

I cannot sew a fast enough net to catch my atoms from falling

apart at the seams. I am a book and I am dusty.

My binding, your heartstrings. Beat me back to one.

I promise if you listen long enough

to my this-is-what-pain-sounds-like voice

there’s a prize at the bottom of my Cracker Jack hole —

truth. Come close my eyes

because I’ve long since lost sleep

and I’m scared of the dark, I think,

even most when the lights are on.

Here, paint a picture inside me with your fingers.

Make me something brand new.

I’m screaming rocks out my voice box

for some sign that someone can see me.

I’m stretching the wingspan of my fingertips

trying to keep my solar system mind from taking flight outside my body

and exploding into:

I don’t believe in God because bad things happen to good people

and good people do bad things in attempts to find their nature.

Now I didn’t ask for any of this, it all came on overwhelming like the ocean’s edge —

crashing

crashing.

This is my existence.

And maybe if I wasn’t getting so hailed on

I could bow my head long enough to listen

to people tell me I’m losing myself,

but the woe - meteors have long since burned the music of my throat.

Can you hear it?

My sad song whispers?

My mother called me disgusting once and it’s all I can think about sometimes.

If you held hands with my nerves you could probably feel him touching me

or the time I tried to cut all my sad song whispers away.

I don’t talk about myself much

because I’m so bent on trying to understand why

Rose didn’t give Jack more room on that fucking door when the Titanic sunk.

We all know there was enough room,

but instead she let him go and we love her regardless

because we’re praying to God that she loved him too