Jeanan Verlee - At The Junction

[speculumannorum]

of Manic and Post-Traumatic Stress
stand the clutch of women I keep closest.

After the assault, they usher me
toward the intangible. Let go, they say.

Can’t be strong always. Fit. Wail. Riot.
Go unapologetically mad.

Instead, I pop another Abilify. A Buspar. Ten.
No longer allowed Xanax, so I settle

for wine. And Benadryl. And Melatonin.
And wine. What they cannot understand

is the anatomy of a manic girl
breaking. No clean edges, no roads back.

Only bloodspatter, leak, voltage.
Sonic boom. Brushfire. Jail time.

Every day, a glorious and appalling
new way to burn down my own house.

Here, the white pill; here, the blue. Here,
the sherry, the roast, the chaser. The nicotine,

the kiss. Fill and keep filling. Swallow, swallow.
Keep the body occupied. Keep it from igniting.

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