Lydia

Even as I write this

my brain implores me to be productive

(get up and do the dishes, they're attracting fruit flies)

She's like a rigid, frigid bitch

(you're a "feminist," huh)

who cannot seem to shut the fuck up

like she can only focus on preventing enjoyment.

No relaxation.

No pleasure.

I just need two minutes,

(two minutes for what, surely that's not enough for whatever pointless task this is)

please, just two minutes to catch my breath

to actually feel that I can soothe

(soothe what, your laziness and complete lack of identity)

myself.

 

But there's no soothing... her.

(her who)

She's always there, taking up space,

(this space belongs to me, not you)

getting louder

(you sound ridiculous)

and louder

(you're not a poet, take care of the dishes and feed the cats)

and louder until I can't ignore her incessant prodding

(you know this is actually you)

to be a robot, a mechanical version of myself that is

(are you done yet)

completely devoid of emotion; only irritation.

 

My mind's eye tells me she has fingernails, but fingernails

(this is you, entirely)

aren't accurate

(finally, accuracy, keep going)

they're more like talons. Twisted talons that scrape the inside of my

(what the actual fuck are you talking about, you sound insane)

skull.

The screeching sound of my own neuropathways

(nerd, who cares)

being traveled relentlessly, constantly

(again, who gives a damn, stop writing you narcissist)

a drunk driver behind the wheel of a big-rig

white-knuckled

slamming on the brakes

(brakes? you don't have brakes, listen to yourself)

without any hope of slowing down.

 

This up-tight, high-maintenance

(you've been told you were high-maintenance since 7th grade)

voice

(you're hearing voices now? that's a good sign)

deafens me. Until I can barely hear my own heartbeat

my own thoughts

(all of these are your thoughts)

my beliefs

(you believe every single word)

who I am entirely.

(you had no sense of self so why bother now)