It is a sickness.
Words pour from me
Truth and fantasy
Since a child.
I have a writing disorder.
People run for fear I'll share.

When in the fever, it spills from me
on napkins and paper bags.
It surrounds me.
It drowns me.

The disorder seizes me.
Words written in lost notebooks
long forgotten.
The writings disappear, but the sickness
never goes.

Uncontrollably, as green in May,
words spread over me.

All right then
lets leave it now
lets park it at the door
you are right
And I
well, I am just the girl
who agreed
to park it at the door

Chicken in the oven.
Playing chicken with the oven.
Gaslighting the oven.

Not really. Dinners in the oven
Cooking in the oven.
Tasty in the oven.

How long do I wait for myself to arrive.

I feel as if
Maybe,

I dropped in years ago,
And no one was at home.

Did I miss my calling?

Did you?

She knows all there is to know
and just a little bit more
and yet
she goes to bed
tries to sleep
then realises
she knows
to much awful
to sleep

i stand in front of the mirror
making faces at myself

poking at my stomach
and pinching my sides

i run my fingers down my stretch marks
and my eyes trace the marks on my wrists and ankles

i am still alive
but i feel very much dead