Waiting for me
like the stink of worms squirming beneath the earth,
the Crazy is inside me,
burrowing holes into my every convolution and nerve.
I have seen their faces contorted, mad;
Mumbling and bumbling behind mirrors;
Howling at the sound of a telephone, ringing-and-ringing.
Long ago, I knew them as mother, sister, and aunt—
before their eyes rolled back, each one screeching,
transforming before my eyes like the lady sawed in half—
They become the maniac, the demon, or blade of grass.
I have bad blood.
And it waits for me— on both sides of the glass;
Somewhere inside my body, plotting the demise of ME;
Of my sanity; of my ability to hold the Crazy inside;
Not spilling out any of this blood
which has poisoned all my family.
Not a drop, yet. I am still here, with it— breathing in ME.
I do not know when the Crazy will come for me.
But I see it sometimes while I’m dreaming—
or just waking up; I—
Think I see something;
Think I hear something;
Think that something
is moving ever so slightly behind the shower curtain,
while I’ve sat down to pee, in the dark preamble of morning.
I get up, pull back and step inside, alone with it, naked.
A freezing cold shower at 3 AM—
This is lunacy for most, but for me,
just my medicine, bargaining me
to a place I cannot feel, cannot remember;
Numbing my brain back to slumber—
Where I dream of the madhouse;
The one I came from or the one I am going to
after the Crazy finally takes me, just like it did