to finish what was started/My Brain is a Fishbowl

*this is an old collaborative piece I was a partner to, please note that not all these words are mine and this not solely my piece -I simply finished a project that was a bit dusty*

A creak in the room, a rattle at the glass. I watch myself, being where I shouldn’t.

“I got very angry - I don’t know why.”

A leaf, pinned to the wall. A lighter, a writing desk.

“Throw something at me and see if I run.”

“You’re fine."

Crusted dead noodle – the little bits of nobodies want. Can I just say I didn’t want to do the dishes?

“This one is rotten.”

“You’re fine.”

“No, but I’m good at running; backward, forwards with a finger on the switch.

On.

Off.

Come here.

Go away.

Swollen gaze sideways,

Photo of a dead butterfly, wings orange and tattered on the sidewalk. My caption: same here.

It’s almost useless. I try to drift away

“Why can’t I be me? Why do I - just do it?”

“You’re fine.”

“I can’t take it anymore! The way they look at me, the way they sound to me. I spent the morning trying to figure out why I woke thirty minutes past the hour. I care so much I can’t care anymore.”

Drive into the veranda, collapsed into the staircase. At 3 am I force myself to sleep. Leave the lamps on all night.

“You’re fine.”

A snowfall over my roof, all hushed. I had lost my appetite, really. How very like the winter resident.

“I can’t leave myself. It lingers.”

Above me, the wind chime sings again, and I am reminded of all things controlled.

“And I still ask why?”

“You’re fine.”

Along the darkened road, I saw glimmers; lives more peaceful than my own.

“If you looked through one particular window, what would you find? Someone destroyed their world into swollen feathered fragments. A mattress against the wall. Blankets folding over and over and between themselves to create an inescapable abyss. Something that seemed fun to be lost forever within. What were you looking for again?”

“I am afraid –

"You're fine."

- the fear and the excuses will spill out, onto the stained carpet in front of everyone.”

“You’re fine.”

Cartridges fired into black water. There is only so many times when being broke over the knee doesn’t make for a better suppressor of self-feeling.

“Right from the start it crept up my throat, choking all I was to say - not that it would been worth hearing it, but I would’ve like to listen to it myself. It settled there. And I was left to wait for when I could no longer remember what forgetting was all about.”

“You’re fine.”

“Is that all there is to say? To understand? Since there is nothing to do but whine - I am alive. I see a snowy world just outside and I understand that is me who sees it, but doesn’t really feel it.

Tell me, does regret compound over time? Does love turn from a burnt spot in the throat to something we wish to forget?”

“You’re fine.”

“You are a puppet in my hands. A face with a mouth I move to make myself feel better. To chastise myself for things I’d like to say would make a difference. Maybe I’d say all the right words and it would still end in fragments where I hold my breath like a swimmer, praying.”

“Won’t you say something to me? Anything at all?

I know you can’t.”

“You’re fine.”