i don’t think hiding is fun;
it’s necessary for survival,
so my stomach doesn’t churn in a rhythm
of panic attacks until i can’t fall asleep.
 
the feeling sounds like late-night, minimal volume television
watching kate mckinnon live in nyc
i don’t watch television past ten fifteen.
it’s when the blazers start to converse
and i don’t want to know what they say.
 
i bet my brain smells like coffee, sweet and pungent.
when i think, i taste pink (or grape) bubblegum.
i hate one and love the other
and for some reason buy one of each
at the candy store down the street.
the bubbles burst like fireworks and
make my lips go numb
(or do i just say that so I don’t have to talk).
 
i have five million blazers in my closet.
some made of satin, but i prefer the suede ones.
i’ve never liked satin, but i won’t get rid of them.
they’re classier because i spilled a shirley temple on the breast pocket.
the stain expanded so it looked like my heart was bleeding.
in reality, i think my brain is bleeding
or being stabbed by the satin blazers
that whisper behind my back,
making it impossible to decide.
 
i’m not indecisive, i just can’t decide when;
even if i was indecisive (which is nasty sounding label),
i wouldn’t say i was
because those words sound like grape bubblegum.
a creature made of a sticky violet substance
that hovers over me and whispers in my ear.
that label fits the monster,
not me.
 
maybe it is me.
i can’t decide (and i know that’s a problem)
but sometimes saying nothing is okay
and letting two separate scenarios put on plays
in my head is nice, therapeutic.
or do i just tell myself that?
 
i try not to be afraid but
cry an ocean salty enough to float in anyways.
i will jump in the shrunken puddles of my tears,
which will be so acidic, they’ll acid wash my jeans
(and skin) and if i’m lucky,
the monsters will wash away too.