by Caroline Prank
How am I sane?
The colors running up my veins, like salmon up the river, only to die at the very top.
I live through my note-taking palms, the memorization,
And a textbook case of disassociation. These keep me afloat over the sea of anxieties. Wait, that's an overused rhyme, I'm sorry.
I don't believe in my own ability to say,
so I whisper the words of the women writing my PowerPoints.
Like a mantra for the dead, I rise again each morning,
to the dark lights of my sanity screaming for release, like the whore between the sheets. There's no satisfaction, but the money I get selling myself out.
Is my sanity even speaking when I'm too far gone to hear it?
Like trees in forests, and kids in hallways, the unheard is misrepresented in its absence. My sanity with those above, it's mumbling delusions into my ear, a drunk man's ballad.
I trust I can tell the fact and fiction apart,
but a part of me says that, if it's my sanity that's lying to me, I should really just turn over and go back to sleep.