The doctors told me that the neuronal activity in my brain
was excessive — too much — a dictionary definition for my
over time, has accumulated more earth. The weight of humans
that are born from nothing. Roses with heavy roots. Gravity sinking into
itself slowly. The weight builds and the plates shift. Clouds start
taking on heavier burdens.
My neurons are excessive, too much.
The lovebirds of my synapses talk softly to one
another. Sparks flying. Dendrites holds dendrites. My
body gaining not weight but rather, everything the world has given me,
stuffed in the rivers and valleys of my mind, the
folds and grooves of pink grey matter.
Even when I was laying on the flat table in the flat room
with the wires coming out of every corner of my head, my
synapses were dousing each other in gasoline and throwing matches
in every direction.
Relax, they keep saying. Sleep, the doctors say.
Men are selling little promises,
and down the street, my drug dealer gives me four for
less than ten dollars.
The world orchestrates. My radiator smashes bricks
against the floor. A man and a woman argue over arguing outside. My
body is lurching and aching. My mind is defending itself by coating itself
I feel my heartbeat through my skin. My organs are not secretive
about their affairs with each other. I lay with my cheek flat against the
tile floor because I haven’t slept for days and everything
is whispering so loud and the world is pooling
inside of me.
Excess, the doctor said.
And I didn’t know how to ask him
He won’t be talking because my dic
Ahhh about that. Things are well. Complicated.
I’d be an absolutely horrible father, luv. Have you met me?
Bonus points if I take it.