Messy Ways

My momma told me that I need to be organized on the outside so I can be organized on the inside.

She said make you bed in the morning, hang your clothes on the rack, and I don’t need to remind you to take out the trash,

She does not know it yet

Because I have never told anyone I was

*clears throat*, excuse me I am, Suicidal.

That I am chained to my bed,

A prisoner of sleep because captivity protects me from the winter winds,

That making my bed feels like a toxic relationship that knows you'll eventually come back

and when you do it will not let go.

Hanging my clothes only makes me feel like I should be the one on the racks,

My esophagus feeling the Hate of the KKK I have manifested upon myself

strangling me like a bad nightmare,

or a possible reality.

Because self hate is weed that grows in insecurities you think mean nothing until they grow over the roses and become the only plant in your garden.

Walking past the dry oak on my way to waste field triggers a memory of a past life

A déjà vu that tells me I know the strength of a tree branch that holds corpses as piñatas

 better than I know the history of my ancestors.

Better than I know my deceased depressed grandfather.

Better than I know how to love myself.

But not better than I know the outlines of my veins

The way each green line curves in my forearm

Disappearing in my wrist like it was ocean and the blade a fishing hook looking for them

She tells me "You know why you sleep so much?"

It because you don’t eat meat,

but my mother doesn’t understand

That I am eating myself alive inside

Dying to tell someone

But depression keeps my mouth shut

And sleep deprivation is the perfect cover

So when she tells me,

Clean up

Go to sleep

eat

I simply tell her,

 okay

Maybe she wants her children to be organized

To make up for her mess inside.