autopsy

My mind can be so loud.

My mother would condemn me for calling it loud if she heard and insist that it’s merely vibrant.

Just like she would tell me my heart was just too big for my body, not that I was too sensitive.

Or that the well in the hollow of me just flowed with more water than most, not that I cried far too often and easily.

It’s all polite and motherly ways of telling me I am an overly emotional being.

I don’t just feel.

Every emotion that fills me will always overtake me and swallow me whole like a pill.

I don’t just think.

Every thought is broadcasted across the city, waking people out of their sleep and making their dogs bark.

I don’t just cry.

I am the sole cause of natural disasters and floods across the oceans, I ought to owe millions from the damages it’s caused.

No amount of motherly love can fix the over exposed film over my eyes or the black mold that covers every inch of my lungs.

And I can blame the earth and blame the president and blame my dad all I want,

But in every autopsy the cause of death will always be me.

It will always be me.