With a scary cross on top,
The street lamp stands tall,
hovering over you, shining,
inspecting your embroiled mind
through your translucent skull.
A 3M Post-It Note on the mirror,
saying, “You’re looking at the problem.”
Remnants of another, rather filthy note,
falsely proclaiming, “God loves you.”
Nothing with you is likely true.
And this morning,
black birds carry bags of rationality
in through the bathroom window,
scattered crumbs of reason
like dirt in the garden, demonstrating
that perhaps those who label you insane
may not have spiritual awareness;
snakes in their hands cast judgment,
but who says you should be made
to suffer the world
in such a kindly and fashionable way?
You admit defeat and accept brokenness.
You are broken over and over,
but perhaps it is they who are broken,
they who stand the barrage of shit,
the waves upon waves of hate
and stay standing, claiming it is normal
to soak up these storms
and not be shattered.
Perhaps they are broken, perhaps insane
in their undisturbed metal skins.