navigating a world which feels like gravity is working in reverse

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my disorder

A poem from Brooklyn at open mic last night:

A public service announcement:
My disorder does not have an off switch.
My disorder is a living thing.
My disorder is a puppeteer
Sitting in my skull,
Pulling strings,
And fucking with my thoughts.

My disorder is a coward.
She hides behind a mask of her own making.
It slides across my face like prison bars,
Closing me in,
Pushing you out.

My disorder is a siren.
She swims in waters of loathing,
And comes to the surface to croon tunes in the key of deceit
Their melodies so sweet,
That I am drawn into her lies.

My disorder and I are alone.
We stand in a storm,
Waiting forever for the eye.
Fog rolls between drops of rain and tears,
And hides hands of help.
To see is to believe,
And we are blinded by lightning strikes.

My disorder and I are an artist
We take beauty from panic,
Pull poetry out of pain,
Weave tapestries of words to hang upon the walls of this broken home—
This broken brain.
We lavish in the things that are really killing me.

I’ve forgotten how to trust anything but my disorder.
I’ve forgotten the notes to every happy song I have ever known.
I’ve forgotten the difference between manic and ecstatic.
I’ve forgotten what happy feels like.

I can’t hear,
I can’t hear their kind words.
I can’t feel,
I can’t feel their outstretched hands.
I can’t see,
I can’t see their concern.
I can’t believe,
I can’t believe that they care.
Even if they do.
Even if they are.
Even if they’re there.
Even if they scream.

My disorder does not have an off switch.
No.
She is alive.
And she is a bitch.

By Brooklyn