categorized

at the end of the day,
what difference does it make
if I have attention deficit disorder
oppositional defiant disorder
non-24-hour circadian rhythm disorder
and/or
bipolar disorder?
I’m still
fucking crazy.

what difference does it make
if you refuse me because
you’re afraid, and can’t admit
you have feelings
or because you think
I’m so ugly
that you wouldn’t fuck me
if I was the last
woman on earth, or with
your worst enemy’s dick?
I’m still
going home alone.

what difference does it make
if the surging waves of
contradictory emotions
that sweep over me
like a flash flood,
making me want to
scream out loud
cry
throw my phone out the window
tear my own skin off, or
move across country
are caused by tiredness
a long day of travel
with its attendant frustrations
the fact that I can’t control
my environment
a lack of serotonin
the weed wearing off
my new tattoos itching
the fact that I’m almost home
but not quite, agonizingly close
or some other bullshit I have yet
to figure out?
there’s still
nothing I can do about it.

it must just
be endured. I write
my impotent poems
squeeze my eyelids tight shut
against the next wave of tears threatening, grit
my teeth, and
somehow summon patience.
this, too, shall pass.
by the time I get home
I’ll be okay.

I tell myself this
because even though
the category doesn’t matter,
though my mothlike feelings flutter by
far too fast to be
pinned down by even the most
pointed of words,
and trying to put my wild
heart in a cage only makes it wilier,
sometimes I have no choice,
sometimes I need something
sometimes I’ll settle for whatever
can get me through
the next five minutes.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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