I was taken, cracked like an egg
I fondle a furrow, thinking
did this come from then?
and a reality I was told later
something, assuredly, that couldn’t be<
No. No one examined me
only a false memory, a child’s make- believe
My imagination, even then
conspiring against me
with a vision of unpleasantries
one where I questioned
what the fuck was wrong with me
unnaturally, a rare and curious oddity
that didn’t break: it snapped and stretched
and years later, unchanged by time
this awkward thing on my mind
that I took myself there, alone
I later drove myself home
bleeding on the seat.
I am awake, but I disassociate.
I read something, somewhere, once –
that it’s a common symptom of the BPD
an affliction that just comes upon me
to act without thought or intent,
and replay the movie later in my head
– it’s a crime scene, waiting to be undressed
to piece it all together and make sense of the mess.
Caged –
the little bird has a big song
and if he holds her throat for too long
he might just set her free.