“Hm, you’re usually very self-aware,” says Dr. N.
But then her mouth is a kazoo and steam is screaming
from a kettle attached to my shoulders, the unfamiliar
like bricks stacked too tall but the crash never comes.
Now I am swinging a heavy metal shovel down hard
on my grave making sure the dry dark dirt stays in place
so the old me can’t come back, but I know at some point
she’ll wake. Her eyes will open wide blinking like red numbers
on my old plastic clock in the middle of the night.
She’ll take my insides out, rearranging them,
adding in a few screws and nails and needles,
but the pain will feel like my old favorite sweater,
holes hanging off my too-thin frame.
Why can’t I stop losing weight?
The pills ride down my throat without my permission.
It might be time to close the exhibition.
About The Author: August Blair
August Blair is the blogger behind Writers With Mental Illness. She is a freelance writer and student at the University of North Georgia. She is passionate about writing and psychology. You can find her writing online and in print.