the switch.

driven
like a windup toy stuck on full i am constant movement & never sitting still.
awash with all my dreams i fill
notepads of plans for years ahead
i am fitting fifty steps into every hour i have & even still
i feel
there’s never enough time.

i can write a 15 page research paper in one night & it’s nothing
i am stacking up my a’s in the sink
i am contemplating skipping my masters to do my doctorate;
i am planning on graduating two degree programs at the same time.

i am ignoring
the look in your eyes when you ask me “why are you doing so much?” and
“when do you sleep?”
because this doesn’t feel like too much to me; i am driven
why wouldn’t i do everything if i have the time?
i’m unreasonable & irrational; i’m hypomanic.

i am ignoring
the little voice in the back of my head that wonders “what are you running from?”
because i know i’ll eventually find out;
& later i am
finding out —

later i am
like a switch suddenly unable to get out of bed
as if my life has been stripped away
all my old goals belong to someone else
i feel stupid for even considering i could;
i have no desire to do anything other than
simply exist
and even that
feels like too much.

like water i ran in waves

i was against the doorway
i was
against the line
i was against the shore crashing
cold against crooked rocks
bashed bloody black & blue no pieces left to use
mixing sea salt with secrets because
the crashing is the only thing that feels (real)
the only thing i have —
in this box, is this book
this book of stories; of secrets, of sound
of all the times i wrote my words away
& wrapped excuses with bowties but now
paper crumbles to dust, too shaky are my fingers to hold
wind rips away the yesterdays i spoke about
and paints them into the sky
in peaches, in purples, and in perspective

and for a minute i stop feeling —

and i’m free.