Note to a Stranger

You put me on SSRIs, and my brain is rotting into functional corrosion-you cauterized my protestant work ethic and thickened my flow into a quasi-productive ebbing of platitudes and minimal strife. You've made it so that I've had to make a life not frozen in time; one a little more promising and a tad less sublime. I know no warping, wounding words no more, and it is your fault. Once I stopped being a doormat, I stopped being beneath you. So sick that someone so domineering could unlock the same part of me that setting you straight sent dormant again. It's dementing that you are a stranger and when I see you, that throbbing comes flowing through me again and I'm a little weak in the knees but a whole lot stronger than when you first saw me lamenting my duplicitous mediocrity. A darling devoid of action but so replete with words, even when you sweep me off my feet I am still stooping beneath you, even though I know that the chances of you stopping are relatively low. Daring as these declarations have been, I dare not forget to regret. And though my voice my waver thin, I wish somebody had knocked that damn door in. And though my voice my waver thin, I wish somebody had knocked that red door in.