My skull is a house and in the eaves there is this sparkling chaos; it is lovely and upsetting, terrible and exhilarating and I breathe it in more times than what is safe.
I slept through the last year and sleeping beauty isn’t me. I did not wake up to a prince assaulting me with a kiss; I woke up to a monster that climbed out around my sternum and hung around my ears, throwing magic dust in my eyes so everything became distorted. It was not a separate monster: I am the monster.
My dad always told me that if I slept when needed and did what I was told, the cucuy would stay dormant. Lies. The monster isn’t in the closet or under the bed, the monster is me and chained into my head.
I try to repackage myself by stabbing the intrusive thoughts with forceful psalms I make up when the beast is sleeping. No one surrenders.
I let surgeons fail at repackaging me. The love of men cannot repackage me. No knife or mortal thing can make me beautiful. Sometimes I make myself beautiful, other times I see my face change seven times in five seconds and recognition fails to fire off.
The blue pills tame the little monster with its chaotic hands and words just enough for sleep to come over me in a fog. My dreams are full of men telling me they wish they could love me but something is wrong with my face, something is wrong with my body.
Something is wrong with my brain.