I keep seeing a black dog next to me.
Will this chase me all my life?
The dog, the needles, the pills, the razors, the knives?
The weight like leaden boots of the pain I carry
the empty bottles of alcohol my mother has consumed tied together with strips of brown paper bags
trailing behind me like dead noisy prayer flags
The cape of shame I wish I could use to make myself smaller
will my life always be divided into before and after she turned
from a helicopter into a monster?
And then the guilt, anxiety, pain, visions
fill in every crack between my bones, every tunnel in my mind.
I thought his love could save me
but my brain is killing itself like a mad cow.
Trembling, I pick flecks of nothing off the floor again.
Talk to a wall.
Feel the touch of an eyeball watching me in my sensory awareness.
Count to 3 or 12. Start over.
Everything is going to explode and I am the only one who sees it
and I think I can prevent it but I am a fucking liar.
Tel is a poet, artist, and musician currently residing in Connecticut, USA with her husband. She likes to use poetry to explore synergy and connection in small moments of life reflected in dreams, observations, and nature. Her other interests include traveling, antiquing, motor racing, films, and foreign food.
Poet’s Instagram: @thechompunk
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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.
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