“9:25 Psychosis” by Brianna Stevenson

Too sick for a demon
Too dark to be an angel
My mental purgatory wreaks of misfortune.
They say one big shock unlocks the door
Yet it’s still locked.
The little ones aren’t too bad, anyway.
See, that’s the thing about sickness:
How can it exist if it cannot be seen?
My darkness has formed a body of its own and killed my shadow.
When I walk, it yells at the passerbys,
“Fear me!”
Jeez, what an ego…

The recovery will not be televised.

The darkness will never quit.
Once it gets a taste of the sorrow, the confusion, the inability to perceive anything as positive, malleable, capable… It can’t get enough.
The addict is never picky.
I run,
I walk,
I crawl,
The finish line falls to Atlantis.

I tell myself the mental cancer is too strong
And I lie down…
When suddenly a drop of water falls on me-
immediately restoring my freshly – straightened hair to its kinky glory….
And like that, I’m back to reality.

Everyday is a war
A test
A struggle

But it was given.
Please close the curtains.
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