They don't want me to write this poem.

January 31

They don't want me to write this poem.

My depression says,
It doesn't matter anyways.

You'll still need the pills. You'll still wake up crying that you woke up alive and not dead. You'll still hate what you lost and hate even more that you know how to get it back but just can't find the drive.

My autism says,
They just won't get it.

Nobodyhasaheadfuckeduplikeminenotevenclosenotbyhookorbycrookandthepalacehastoomanyroomssoyoukeeplosingyourkeysandthenrememberingwhereyouleftthembuttheyarenotthesamekeysyouaresurebutnotsurebecausewhoelsecouldhaveleftthemthere?

My PTSD says,
No poem is a time machine.

It won't stop her from doing what she did to you. It won't stop the Fear. It won't heal the wound in your heart that tears your chest open every time you try and think about opening up on your own terms and time.

But I said,

It DOES matter.

You DO understand.

And this poem IS a time machine.

By the Grace and Light of Her Boundless Love,

So mote it be.