Schizoaffective

Forgive me if I appear peculiar at times. I don’t always win the battle. When I talk, you might find my words unrelated or inconsistent. I make more sense when I write.

I have a hundred different thoughts running fast ahead of me. I struggle to stay present. The voices I’ve learned to live with in my head as a child still keep me from my bed, they keep me in the house, they keep me in my room. My constant companions are music, white noise, and a mask that’s made for trips outside.

One day-one I will not forget-the lifelong prisoner I hid ran free. A busy street devoured me. A new job scared me. My voice is an alarm. Eyes were judges. I was given a grave. I smiled. I sang. I played. I wrote. The perpetual storm waited at the door every night.

I’m killing time by breathing. I trudge through my crowded forest. I tell the shadows to shut up. I force myself to be normal. I try to expose the darkness with my pen.

“This is such a laugh,” goes a whisper in my ear. Do they even rest? I wonder if they ever get tired of repeating the same old words to me. I don’t even know why I still bother to write. The timid five-year-old girl won’t yield. When do I get to quit? The king is relentless in stealing my final plans.

If I lend you my shoes, would you wear them?