Strange Sickness

it must have been only some misfiring synapse
some faulty wiring, disconnected fuses in my brain
that caused this sadness to stick like sour honey to my bones

they tell me it can be treated but not cured
so I take sick days like anyone else, swallow pills to soothe the pain
and hope that the sunlight will not be too harsh tomorrow
because my eyes are salt-stained and red
and dusk is about the only time I can see straight
so I sit on my back porch at 7 PM and take gulps of evening air
fingers crossed to the point of breaking, hoping that tonight will be the night
that something will crack open in me
and I will become limber and free again

and memories of old loves feel like pinpricks on cold wrists
recalling the nights that I shared my sadness with the wrong people
or tried to cover it with someone else's lips
laughing a little too hard or drinking a little too much wine
trying on happiness like an ill-fitting dress and convincing myself
that if I just keep wearing it, maybe
it will stop feeling so tight and uncomfortable
but the ice spreads in my lungs even still
and I find myself locking bathroom doors even when lovers are over
because the pauses between pieces of conversation last too long
and the chances of my smile slipping are too great
and I cannot risk it

it is a strange sickness, this slow descent
that leaves the sky more gray than glowing
some nights, I am a moth with oiled wings inside a jam jar
no holes poked into the lid
and other nights I am cave-deep in darkness
or still-born quiet
and I rub coconut oil on my neck and in my hair
in some small attempt to mask my own scent
which is something like old pine needles drying in summer

I am trying to take cover from this storm
folding deeper into myself as the rain beats down inside my skin
and there is not much I can find by way of shelter
so I am beginning to think that I am inescapable
and that is what scares me most