Where the Wallpaper Rips

There was the seed into me that sprouted an old chaos in the brain,

burning my sheets and leaving me in a panic-fixed-manic state where

I race and pace to chase away the tracing patterns–crumpled,

transparent paper I hold up to my eyes and see between the lines–I

see a woman in the white space who has no hands, looking

around herself so fast, waiting for a world of fact and substance

and material. But she sees noise creep across the floor sometimes–I

read it in her lines–and lovely poetry burns into a naked stash she wades

through to get to the doctor’s office, to get her prescriptions and the

brilliance of a psychotherapist. This is what aftermath lays down to.

Arrival, and then, where? Where to go in such space?

I am the cracked egg

finally a breaking shell

I am helpless liquid with a sharp eye floating.

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