Inside out is my favorite movie.
All personified emotions scattering in a brain.
We all have become someone
other than ourselves before.
A man at a bar grabbed my chest.
I looked him dead in the eyes and said,
“I will fucking kill you.”
I am never one to fight.
Not even one to flight.
Always freezing, choking, scrambling.
I thought to myself,
“Who is that?”
In reference to him.
Surely he has been hijacked.
And who am I to respond in such a way?
I’ve gotten into the habit of asking.
Only way to know how much of me
is someone else’s expectations.
Sometimes my flight of thought
is hijacked by a scared five year old,
a 13 year old boy hitting puberty TOO hard.
The worst, a million crows
flying way to close to my propellers.
I can always borrow bravery
from the ones in my head.
Creativity, adventure, hope;
lent out like DIY library books
to study and return.
Who is the one so desperate to learn?
Is it me?
Or all of us,
trying to combat the unpredictability
of this existence.
My brain map resembles an office.
Depending on the day, the receptionist
Some Monday’s she doesn’t want to be there.
Switches out with a man
who is more than willing to be dominant.
Everyone trying to get through the day.
Constantly clocking in and out.
Some desk mates enjoy their companions
while others are sorted to work in the back room.
Analysis is a room monitor,
supervising everyone’s progression and activity.
Making sure nobody goes into overtime.
We don’t want to pay for overtime.
And still, who is this?
Writing this poem and
opening the office
for public viewing.
Surely not me.