words

i haven't written in a while.
if my life were a painting, it would be abstract and vague,
a mess of indecipherable lines and splotches, and
i'm afraid that if i let words flow, i'll forget metaphors ever existed, 
and i'll round myself up in some copy-and-paste,
six-year-old,
i hate everybody ramble.
i can't remember who i decided to love and hate yesterday,
because with each passing second, reality changes clothes.
used to be a white t-shirt and jeans. now
it's a mismatched sort of everything-on-top-of-each-other,
colors-i-didn't-even-know-existed attire.
in the painting,
love in upside down and hate in turned around.
i've painted over my family in red,
and pasted meaningless things like bees and butterflies over them.
when they cross my mind, my eyes helplessly stream
with i'm-not-in-control-of-my-own-life-anymore-because-i'm-a-deranged,
(and, i quote, as per my mother,) psychotic person.
i can't be alone, because that warrants a lack of self-consciousness,
which entirely eradicates my filter, which means
my chest ties in a knot and i breathe a thousand
breaths per second and i blink and click and tap
like the, ahem, psychotic person i am.
things i knew i'd regret linger in my frozen history,
things i'm too ashamed to sculpt into words---except
when i wake up, i close my eyes and pray for a time machine.
it was even my fault. no one else. no pressure.
i asked for what i knew i'd regret. okay?
i can't talk about this anymore. okay?
i haven't written in a while, because
i'm afraid that if i let words flow, i'll forget metaphors ever existed, 
and i'll round myself up in some copy-and-paste,
six-year-old,
i hate everybody ramble.
here i am. but wait---
the painting is shifting again, the colors are twisting,
and oh, i'd better go try and catch up, to be teased at its heels,
to watch my only life slip through my fingers once more,
until i give up
and savor the moment of watching it slip away
until it's around the bend,
in the distance,
out of sight.