shayesie

It’s About Trauma or Burnout or

There are minuscule pieces jangling around inside of me.
I can hear shards smacking, scraping up against skull
Leaving little indentations for the mold to blossom and grow.

They’re microscopic, plant-like organisms composed
Of long filaments called hyphae. I never looked up how to
Fix it, so they form into a cottony mass behind my eyeballs.

Black mold, black bread mold, alternaria solani.
It’s all growing inside my brain—until the shards don’t smack
Anymore. They just lay into the mounds like a pillow

Until there are splinters enough to pile on top of one another.
Upset by new tendrils, they scrape and they jostle, sliver against sliver, and then
There are minuscule pieces jangling around inside.

As the mold grows into and dislodges more shards of me,
I become nothing but noisy fragments held together by
Skin folds. I am bottles clanking together in the trash bin bag,

A wind chime given up to the garbage can.

Stay gold,
Sabrina