Encephalo-

Choose your ending, go ahead. Perhaps -clastic, or maybe -pathy?
Some days are bad days, and sometimes people can't seem to accept that I speak through my writing;
that communication has always been slightly difficult for me anyways; and sometimes even simply putting things into words is difficult enough to land me flat on my back.



Shadows cascade through the open window;
steely fingers of moonlight slipping across the floor,
reaching under furniture and stealing scraps
of daylight leftover from noon.
Dust covers everything like filter paper,
smelling stagnant and viscously-thick; hanging
like cobwebs in the air: a colloid suspended in water.
Every couple minutes,
the roof makes a noise like rain,
and the clouds snap apart like Lincoln-Logs.

I sit in bed, the blankets furled around me
like stalwart arms, and try to hold it all in.
Light is beckoning outside my door
and, somewhere, a cat is scratching and yowling
to be let in from the cold,
but I can't uncurl. I am fetal again, my limbs boneless
and malleable, plastered to this body that only has a heart
(that's it.)
Drums are beating in my ears still; the sound of trumpet fanfares
cracking like puberty snaps vocal-c(h)ords, and trombones;
oh, those trombones sliding: all those glissandi;
music like inner tubes filling [water dripping onto pudding.]

Ghosts are rattling the closet doors now,
but I'm too apathetic to be afraid.
All I can feel is the yoop;
the hiss and strangle: gurgle, gasp
of sobbing [your lungs leaking.]
My mind is breaking because all these sentences
need to be written so they can leave. So I can bury them
in a mass grave like all those oh-so-terrible/horrible/horrendous casualties;
so I can forget about all these "brilliant" things I have to say
because they just can't be put into words, okay? There are some things
not even you could say.

And the mo(u)rning train trundles by,
making the silverware tremble in its drawer;
the weather worsening like a forte-piano -- sudden crescendo;
like a hurricane opening its eye to survey the damage and grinning
[mouth full of houses.]
Snow flurries beg me to dance,
but I can't uncurl. I am fetal again, living on a lifeline
of graphite and will (oh-so-badly malnourished)
and I have to hold it all in.
I stare at the planes of my hands and know:
oh dear, I have to contain this.

Oh god, I can't contain this.