Big Blue
Hemispheres are wild like that, One in winter, cold and black,
One in summer, hot and heavy, throws this seasonal shit up in a tizzy.
Big blue sticks on the hollowed backs of expats,
permanent baggage checked in; you’ll get no help with that.
“Talk it out, share the load! I’m here to listen, not to scold.”
I need help.
“Oh wait, you’re too much! Quick, swallow this sertraline or citalopram or paroxetine.”
But my heart still feels heavy, help me, don’t condemn me.
“Just wait cailín óg, it hasn’t kicked in.”
Tell me doctor how is this better?
I’m feeling dazey, hazey, sluggish and sick, isolating myself are you listening prick?
“Silence creature! What do you know?
I’ve got honours, and masters, and doctorates to show!”
But… I know.
I’d finally been diagnosed at twenty-five, and at first it was liberating to know I’d be ‘fine,’
but as the label sunk in, it rocked me and knocked me,
am I truly “socially anxious?” Or just struggling, bloodless in the blankness?
Doctors offices always caused me unease but a women’s health hub may be just what I need,
“Care plans are of our utmost priority!”
Lies, bullshit they tell the majority till you sign the waver and lose your mortality
doped up to your eyeballs lost in some modern barbarity where you can get help
but it requires your transparency.
Dramatic irony from the mouth of such self-claiming clarity,
extraordinary power we give to such fractional secularity.
Docile bodies that’s what they want, so they pump us with products the clever savants,
docked like animals,
shackled to our minds,
or is it to the minds of the masters that try and keep us in line?
Valleys run along my skin, housing the remnant ghosts of comrades-in-arms,
Irish soils being the first place I’d experience structures that house years of harm.
“The fact that you’re here proves there’s no call for worry,
you’re just a really sad girl, now be off with ya, hurry!”
Confusing message for a confused mind as rifles and casings flashed behind my eyes.
Internalise, don’t speak out, they don’t want transparency just empty accounts.
“Oh come on cailín óg, don’t feel like that!
You’re interpreting it all wrong! Chill! Relax!”
I will not do what you tell me.
You lack understanding when it comes to emotion,
but your self-pious babblings clearly got you the promotion that’s why you tell young girls
there’s no need to fret, cause they’re not pushing daisies,
right?
I will never forget.