incompatible mechanisms

all for naught

all my memories are tattered.

they're all strung together by the
thinnest thread in an old
abandoned
sewing box.

threadbare memories.

that's a thought, huh?
even the most vivid ones
feel like lies.

imagine having no memories
no visuals
no photos
no letters

no tangible feeling of your mind
s
l
i
p
p
i
n
g
away from

you.

the gap left behind by
the demolition crew.
you didn't hear them ring the doorbell,
or knock down the walls,
but now you're shivering on a dead plot
where something used to lay.

no crumbled drywall left for you
to piece it all back together with.
no doorway.
they even took the mailbox.

all the glass jars
containing life's greatest moments
(smashed to grains on the hardwood floor)

all the kind words filed carefully on paper
organized by name and date
(burnt to ashes, flung headfirst into flame)

all the times you smiled
(crooked teeth, rotting after months.
you kept forgetting to brush.)
and celebrated
(that childlike happiness is torn.
turned to tissue paper to dole out to others.)
and played dress-up
(trying to hide, playing pretend.
wanting, desperately, to be anyone else.)
and scraped your knees
(the blood bubbling up becomes more.
an entire red-wet gash no longer from a fall.)

mental illness is so much more than current.
you're made to forget your past
and give up on your future.

- r. b. auden