Thinking inside the box

she said i'm not
altogether there
grasping at bits of myself
like playdoh
that just won't come together

think inside the box
she said
the universe will
get with the programme
and who can you believe
if not
the advertising?

direct-to-consumer marketing
she claimed, would give you the option
of becoming a whole new person

my sister, the graphic designer
tells me everything is photo-shopped,
nipped and tucked into shape
nothing is what you see
even with your own two eyes

because i'm of different colors
that just won't make sense
strange languages from ancient empires
built on blood and stone

it must have an impact, this
medley of realities

she observed, running her fingers through my hair

neither here nor there
when it comes to declarations
of new age-healthiness

how do you feel, she asked

(thirsty, like a billion people
don't have water?)

but there is no right answer
so i shake and nod
to cover both bases

progress she replied
fingering her theories

no legitimacy proven or identities created
like a quilt stitched together
from patches of everything not you

but none is desired here
my feet don't fit glass slippers that cannot be walked in

you may as well not be here
she responded

because you're alone and have nothing

the stuff of dreams is too far to reach, she says

no color in this black and white stream of consciousness

the doctor proclaims
with serious hand movements
borne of medical school
my looseness is chronic sleep deprivation

just

a good night sleep for the next few months
coupled with anti-unwell medicine for the next few years

unraveling up and down

it just

made me yawn in the middle of her sentence
about the beauty of prozac culture
when life gets too tough

get lost in chemicals

even if life is still the same
outside the bubble
even if
i become a cool-calm-cucumber inside the box
someone new

wrapped in plastic thoughts
isolated from everything
that matters

and nothing changes

and she shifted uncomfortably
suddenly aware that she had buttocks

attached to legs
clothed in itchy fabric

planted on a seat
made of dead animals
in a room filled with

refrigerated air
in front of her self-important plaque
that had no voice of its own and could not save her
just then

well, she said, turning into a patient inflicted with her own
special form of tuberculosis

cough cough cough

i guess so, but you know, she said

the drugs are there to help
in bad times,
it's just science,

and like a diver in too tight swimsuit, she

launches into the terminological inexactitude of

mishmashed facts

cloaking suicide
etc
etc
etc

as commercial secrets

and answers

shhhh

sure, sure,

but why not prescribe weed and cut wall street out of this equation unless
we have it wrong

and its not patents that rule the world?

and prozac is not a blockbuster drug

designed to build these boxes

human cages that we pay to live in?

and from TB she went swiftly down the path of tourettes syndrome

babbling fumbling stumbling

you see, statistics say

she said

lips moving, sentence drifting off

eyes fixed on the plaque, the idol that would not speak

like me, she would be up that night

thinking, fixing

the lie, for tomorrow's presentation

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