A Strange Day on Planet Earth

Show me your wild edges. The place that broke and never mended, the craving that cannot be sated, the thoughts kept scrupulously out of sight.

Do not tell me your diagnoses, identities, or “what you do.” Please don’t bore me now, not when I need you so much.

Show me where you bleed. Show me where you make others bleed.

Tell me the part you can’t figure out. Speak what is definitely not safe to hear — and if you put a trigger warning on that, I will never forgive you.

Warm me with the truth when it is not uplifting. Feed me with your fears, the most irrational and twisted over. 

Don’t let me stand alone in my nakedness any longer.

I must have your hatred, unauthorized and untamed. I crave your unkempt places, unshowered and unknown. I need your steaming hot mess, lest I give up on it all.

Show me your poison and I’ll show you mine.

Don’t draw the curtains around the outer regions of your mind — the paranoid and grandiose, the ecstatic and deluded — where nothing fits back inside its box, however much you shove.

Don’t tell me how you got it at all together after 5,000 years of hot yoga, somatic processing, and diaphragmatic breathing.

I don’t believe you.

Don’t make it make sense: It doesn’t. It will never.

I don’t want it to.

I just need your greasy haired, crying on the sidewalk, I-put-it-all-on-a-credit-card self.

I can’t live without her any longer.

Image: Hanuman and Surasa circa the 17th century via Wikimedia Commons