I am ill
An honest kind of ill
I make no effort at hiding
But on the days I am good
I appear almost normal
Slightly put together
But by thin threads connecting bone to muscle.
And when I lose it
I am wrecked for days
Beating fists against the walls
Trying to silence all conversation
streaming through my brain.
When one thing goes awry
On the days I can hardly hold all my pieces together
I derail. I quit. I am laying on something cold
To keep my skin from burning up
To stifle the twitches
To find the breath
Quickly escaping from my lungs.