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.