the mother on serotonin street. (une lettre.)

sometimes late at night when i should be in la de da dream land, i lay awake staring into blackness, making out tiny figures on the ceiling. i could see anything i want to up there. somehow it always ends up being something scary, though. something that makes me think, "goddammit", before i pull the quilt over my head and wait for some contorted clawed hand to grab my ankle.

in all eventuality, i fall asleep, albeit shortly, for a period of time i am dazed. unconsciously floating through my psyche like ghosts through my old tired house. i find things there that i deem long forgotten in my waking hours. i uncover long dark hallways of memory filled with black balloons and limbless dolls and other such (un)pleasantries that represent a miscommunicated childhood.

there are broken toy children laughing as they play on the soggy floors with still blinking eyes, rolling like marbles, and crashing into each other with a sound louder than crashing waves. the picture frames made of bone rattle and turn to dust, littering the corridor with faded papers and sweating pastels, coughing bursts of color into the night. faint whispers of the gentle hiss of a corpse like mother, standing over us all, fanged and razor-fingered, chanting "i love you." the rumble of thunder rolls as a gentle black slime weeps down the rainbows that struggle to stay lit, flickering like flames, until they are extinguished. skeleton hands crawl like spiders up the walls; and blood falls like rain from pink billows excusing clouds.

my eyes open to dimness, the dreary post-slumber fog that is so easily satisfied by concession. well, concession or a dash of 80-proof-happiness in your orange juice. in reflective pools of thought i ponder the world i was just torn from, by the ever present fork in the road known as consciousness. this alternate universe, to almost anyone else, is nothing short of an unspoken hell.

to me, it is home.

the dark careless tinge of the stripes on my misbuttoned sweater, the smokey untamed waves of my hair, the blood red stain on my lips, the full moon and scribbled black lines making up the deformed creatures that sprinkle my family portraits; where smiling stick figures with triangle-dresses and a corner sun exhaling rays of joy and light belong, all share one surreptitious commonality.

they frighten those of you who know the warmth of the sun. you who have felt the touch of authority melting into a soft, cool puddle of empathy. you who can comprehend a smile, a hug, maybe even sincerity. and yes you, those who know what safe tastes like, on a tongue that has not been scalded numb.

but to those of us on the outskirts of sanity, kicking our empty dented cans of happiness down acetylcholine avenue, watching your laughter spilling out and spelling meaning in the streets, those of us who salvage what letters are left as your sewage washes down our drains, showering our underworld with echoes and whispers, teasing. toiling. tarnishing;

to us, that terror is the swath-smooth blanket we use to gently wrap our ectopic cordi.
intangible scar tissue. mental immunity. subtle, post-traumatic protection.

so walk ahead. look up. smile brightly. carry on. revel in knowing that nothing, not even the creatures surviving below your feet, can reach you. nothing can grasp you.

nothing could touch you.

not even me.