Outer Space

I.

The doctor once tried to explain to me,
in very basic terms, the concept
of derealization; or why I sometimes feel
like a character in a novel, or a doll
with a string hanging off my back
when I get anxious. And I thought,

I know what this is: the way my voice
seemed to fill the entire room
over and under her, like the water
inside of a swimming pool; the way
my interior monologue dictated
the movement of her hands in her lap;
the way Chopin seemed to fall
from the ceiling like snow.

II.

My back is always turned on somebody.
Orchestras swell inside of the blind spots,
where tiny spectators hover, clink
tiny champagne flutes, and make
tiny, silent commentary.

My pupils dilate and a flaming car
crashes through the window
adjacent to where I am sitting.
Gasp, the audience’s mouths form
breathless Os. The doctor carries on
as if nothing has happened. Her eyes
expand and change color. End scene

III.

Yeah, I know just what this is. 
The music was suddenly very loud
and my heart was pumping awkwardly
in my chest as if venting helium. Defenses
compromised. The klaxons went off.
DANGER, DANGER, in flashing red letters.
The doctor called my name, asked me
if I understood. My name again.
I know what this is.

IV.

When I woke up that morning, my face
was on the pillow beside me, wrinkling its nose
as if some rotten smell had rooted deep
inside. The light couldn’t fit through the window
and I had to sit there, my hands tangled
in the blue sheets, arching, aching,
bending the edges to make them fit. I said,
I care nothing for the people around me.
They are awful, just awful. But when I looked
into the mirror, mine were the eyes
I could not meet. DANGER, DANGER.

The bathroom door had swollen in its frame
from the August heat. I couldn’t get out.
I sat down on the floor, and watched the blood
inside the toilet bowl shift, until it appeared
as some sort of impressionist painting.
The ammonia made me fall fast asleep.

V.

When I was a child, I was touched by God.
He didn’t look quite as I’d expected. Bleached hair,
crooked nose, holy moles dotting his pale skin.
God was such an angry little boy. He knocked me down
on the basement stairs, and pulled at my top.
I can still hear that faint click, the sliding pin
that locked me in. Since then, I’ve had
a difficult time feeling wanted.

VI.

I tell myself it was a dream, but it all felt
so out of my control. I climbed out the bathroom
window and landed softly on my knees, fisting
the wet grass between my knuckles, holding on
to something sturdier than myself. Like a warm,
pink tongue trying to tell me that I am loved
in a concentric motion. That was supplication.

The sun was shining, and the rain fell
very gently. I could feel it, smell it all around me
but I couldn’t see it at all. The angels were kissing me
awake. I was inside the rain, disassembling myself
with an invisible hand like a radio, or
a model spaceship. I said,
You are a good child. You can be helped.
I knew what it was.

VII.

The doctor called my name, asked me
if I’d heard anything she had just said.
I shook my head. I heard the things
that I needed to hear.