I am not well
but I want to be.
I am a culmination
of all that’s happened to me.

Limbs ripped off
and sewn back on-
sometimes straight,
and sometimes wrong.

We aren’t supposed
to say aloud
the things that hurt
when they grow loud.

So we give them rooms
behind the mind,
where yesterday
outlives its time.

Swept under lovely,
ornamental rugs,
hidden behind smiles
and shoulder shrugs.

Until one day
the well runs dry,
the rugs wear thin,
dust catches light.

Body worn.
Mind torn.
Sirens sound.
Here comes the storm.

A pile of rubble
left where it fell,
fed by silence,
fattens itself.

Now it pins me.
Now I see.
I cannot hide it.
I cannot breathe.

It demands so much-
more than I can give.
I offer it a broom
and my will to live.

“I do not want these things,” it says,
as it cackles, hisses, spits.
“I only want a chair, you see,
a throne on which to sit.”

I cock my head
as tears fall down,
unsure
of what it’s asking.

Until I do,
it dwells within my sinew-

tired,
unwell,
and masking.