From that time I was psychotic and found a one dollar bill…
Therapy at 3 and what to say?
I’m not feeling like myself.
My head is heavy until the tears, feelings, and frantic words fall out, dripping out of my ear like raw blood and spoilt wretchedness.
Yet this messy bloodletting brings relief and reprieve from my bipolar infection.
Just like George Washington who found remedy from a leech, I find salvation from the draining of my swollen crazy mind.
I wish my teeth were also carved from hippo bone and at the mercy of my mouth.
With a belt to bite on and whiskey fresh wind on my lips the surgeon could crudely remove with very crude tools my terminally crude brain and put it back after refined modifications.
With a bone saw he could wrestle a jagged entrance into my skull and peer inside to see a flurry of tangled letters and bright sad feelings simmering in a broth of tears.
And then just tip me over so the stew tumbles out into a puddle on the carpet in my small brick house because I too never felt at home in a palace.
So much in common.
Washington and I stuck with our sickness and exaggerated reputations.
His barber carving him into coherent corners laced with sewage stains.
I hope my therapist at 3 can tell me the right steps to take to ease the manic swelling in my mind, mouth, and heart.
Even if my ears have to bleed to let the rumbling tumble out; purging my own pulsing garbage.
Don’t waste the whiskey on me because pain is part of my process.
I bite down on my madness one pill at a time until I snap and sink in familiar fire.