Sick Brain

That’s what my mum and I call it. Sick brain. When the contagion seemingly spreads to your very soul. I tend to make bizarre or grandiose or catastrophic decrees on sick brain.

But, ha! This time I sequestered myself away. I am Rapunzel on the ground floor, I needn't be saved.

Because I’m a drugs on your nightstand, crumbs in your bed sheets kind of girl.

A coughing in my sleep, strangled by my hair kind of girl.

A wrinkled banana skin and a more wrinkled singlet kind of girl.

A please don’t speak to me my throat can’t take it kind of girl.

This morning, in a small clinic in the heart of San Francisco, a doctor with warm hands but a cold voice plunged a large needle into my throat. Then, a small and angry looking machine drank from my gums – apparently to stop me from swallowing the river of pus and blood. 

I’m not even sorry for that visual.

The smell of antiseptic made me think of tattoos, and I couldn’t help but wish that were the case. Sharp needles gnawing quickly. A dream result. Alas, I was met with narrow eyes and a mid-western accent. 

I asked her where she was from but she didn’t tell me. Lucky for me, I didn't give a shit anyway.

What a way to spend my two week anniversary. 

So, now I’m a mute; under an induced vow of silence, if you will. 

Like one of Pythagoras’ disciples or a devotee of Mauna or a woman in protest. Or, just a please don’t speak to me, my throat can’t take it kind of girl.

I knocked the scab off an old wound yesterday and it's healing faster now. Funny how that happens.