TO THE WOMAN WHO SAID MY SEIZURES MADE HER “FEEL TRAPPED” by Wil Gibson At times, my world is gone. I do not exist. I become a large twitching dust bunny, unaware of the contents of brain and bladder. I am movement without purpose or explanation or reason. I am gone. I am always almost gone, or I do not exist. You never don’t exist. I could never explain my time to you. There is no understanding this senseless twitch. You have too few years for this medicine, this medication is too young for you. This roar too loud for your precious ears. These sandpaper hands too rough for your porcelain skin. You will never know this uncomfort at the sight of stairs, this nervous bathing and swimming, this piss-soaked fear of my every day. I am aware your thought scares you more than my mind could ever allow itself to absorb. If I lived in that fear, I would never leave the house again, trap myself in soft foam, and become the stain on the kitchen floor. You have never been just a stain. I have marked myself a beast as bad as any label or hatred you could force at my melted feet. All those I love yous met with cold shoulders and I’m fucking sleepings will drown and float like the dead weight that it is. You wanted a reason to listen as much as I wanted a reason to be treated like an unwanted houseguest. Your bitterness a waisted window in this unsmogged grey town. I am not a torn boxing glove for your broken hand. You cannot hold anything until you heal. You have not been good at holding onto things. I used to have the confidence to leave. I don’t have the confidence to get left. I have (nothing) left (to give) myself. Somewhere.