What do you see in me?
Think about it.
Root it deep into your mind.
Keep that in mind as I ask you this:
What do you see in me as I see what is not there?
As I watch objects morph into the unimaginable?
As I see people, auras, creatures…, monsters… slink around you,
genuinely frightened for your safety,
often unaware that these things are not truly there?
What do you see in me as I hear the sounds of the skeletons in my psyche’s closet?
The growls, groans, screeches of demons?
The banging of the fists of the abominations trapped inside my closet—my mind?
As I’m hunched over my desk,
hands over my ears,
tears in my eyes,
desperate to just make it fucking stop?
What do you see in me as I stumble through those days detached from our world,
entangled in the gnarled woodwork of my own?
As I glide hazy-eyed, affectless, with an inflectionless tone that typically carries more peaks and valleys than my mood cycles?
As I give laconic answers?
Or disjointed pieces of sentences being forced together from different puzzles entirely?
What will you see in me when I don’t remember any interaction we had during those days?
When I only see where the pages have been torn from the book of my life?
When I’m aware that those days happened, but have no written account as to what exactly?
When I have only photographic glimpses from damaged film and corrupted audio files?
What do you see in me when you hear the word, “antipsychotics?”
Do you think, “Psycho,” “Crazy bitch,” “Nut job?”
Or do you pity me?
‘Poor thing…,’ ‘To have to go through that…,’ ‘She’s so young…’?
Can you sympathize,
being one of the poor bastards having experienced the same thing,
your opinion likely unchanging?
Or, lacking similar experience, do you think nothing different,
whether it be positive or negative?
I can almost guarantee it isn’t option three.
If you somehow find out,
and it is,