How Are You?

Open my eyes to reality.
Let me see what you see,
Let me feel responsibility.

What it is to understand the grand design,
To see beyond my cracked and open mind,

To hear the problems of my family
And understand that we
Are not meant to be,
But willing to stand, to be and live,
Together in harmony.

I want to cross the bridge and feel,
To break this glass cage and heal,
To walk free of this disassembled heart,
And wonder what it is to fall apart.

I’m not empty, just broken.
Cracked and repaired and cracked again,
Not totally aware, but not complete in knowing that my mind will never be up to par again.
It’s losing,
Dying,
Falling,

Not quite sure how to land on its feet,
Not quite sure when it dropped its last beat,
Finding new ways to breathe
When every last attempt fails again.

Who am I?

I don’t know.

Where am I?

No one’s really sure.

What am I?

There is no answer for that.

I just fell down the hole in the rabbit’s hat,
And I’m not sure how to get back.
The path I took is covered in dirt,
The tracks I left swept away in a melancholy symphony of nonsense and amorality.

I don’t know if I ever was what they wanted me to be,
Or if they wanted me to be at all.
My existence is confusion,
Societal exclusion,
Tripping over social cues,
Crying when a string comes loose,
When the one controlling me walks away with no interest in my well-being.

Who was I?

I don’t know.

Where was I?

No one can tell you.

What was I doing with my life before all this bullshit got dropped in my lap?

You put that there yourself.

Okay... But how do I get rid of it?

Hah!

How do I understand simple concepts,
Like calculating the loves and lives and wonders of this world
Without overloading my brain with unnecessary information and useless twists and turns?

How do I understand what they’re saying with their eyes,
When their mouths are so loud?

How do I see into their wounds,
Help them heal,
Help them listen,
Help them cry into the same useless void I use when I’m upset?

Wait, no.

That’s not helpful.

How do I help them when I don’t know how to life--
I mean live.

Where was I when my mother stole my strength,
When my father disappeared,
And my sister started believing in me?

Where was I when I was six years old,
Embarrassed and cold,
Frightened from the scolding I no doubt deserved,
But didn’t understand?

Where was I when I was fifteen,
Skipping school
And crying on the keys of my keyboard when my friends didn’t come visit me…
Because I was avoiding them?

Where was I when I became an adult,
When I blamed my problems on my mother and my girlfriend and my locked door?

Where was I when I banished others from voicing their thoughts about me,
When I locked away my own heart,
My own brain,
In a cupboard under the sink?

I tried to take it out later, but it had grown mould.
Rotten and old,
When I put it back it growled and moaned,

“FUCK YOU!”

Like an angry tiger who was chased into a hole by a tiny, insecure animal.

Hi, my name is Broken--
I mean Becky.

It’s not Becky,
I just thought that was a clever line.

Not like this one:
Unloved to twenty-one,
Unkempt since then,
Searching and finding nothing,
Except in other people.

They’re whole,
I’m not,
Seems like a perfect match.
Plot twist: it’s not, because they’re not

As broken and twisted as I am,
But their tongues are kept clean,
Inappropriate thoughts kept in the right places
At the right times,
They look better because they fit.

Like puzzle pieces,
They put themselves together over the years,
They are their own ages,
While I’m five years younger.

How I live?

I’unno.

Do you even care?

Probably, at some point, I did.

You apathetic piece of shit,
Look up at what you did to me!
Let me see reality!
Let me understand what it is to be
Alive and knowing,
And feeling and loving,
And …

Living.

I breathe without life,
I speak without words,
Without mind,
Without any kind of…

I don’t know.

I’m so tired.
I can’t think.
Twenty-six years old and I can barely tie my own shoes.

I love through validation,
Live through invitation,
And screw myself with inspiration.
Death and life are not real
Because reality is a concept and it’s fucking me up.

Where was I at six?

Here.

Where was I at fifteen?

Here.

Where was I when I fucked up and pushed away everyone in my life with only a few dollars and a crappy excuse, and maybe a whiny bout of begging and signs of happiness deprivation?

Here.

In my head.
In my head.
In my head.

Zombie.

Cranberries.

Tangent, my bad.

I don’t know what it’s like to be aware of everything in my life,
But I’m…
Fine.

I guess.