It's Terminal

What's going on?

I think I'm upside down

Turned around and backwards.

I cannot find my mind,

I think it has lost me

And left me behind so that I can be myself.

You would think you need a mind

To do that,

But not me.

I need less mind and more matter.

Less thinking, more doing.

Less "what if" and more "why not?"

More time not to think

More time to be.

Less thinking, thinking, thinking forever in circles,

More time to be here

Be with you,

Be with me.

When I was born, I got a mind,

We all get one, 

It's part of the job of being human.

To think,

To be "intelligent".

But right now I'm wishing for the opposite,

And I find myself a tin man

In a world of scarecrows and cowardly lions.

All with so much to say and so much to be

And nothing to feel.

For what is in a brain?

A mind, by any other name would still fucking think too much.

But a heart?

It's so real.

More human than most of humanity.

Made of leaves and loves and that time you wished for something you

couldn't have.

Taken away from you by so many,

Shared and torn up 

Ripped at the seams and put back together.

Over

And over.

No one dies from a broken brain.

But broken hearts are all too common, 

And there's no cure.

"It's terminal,"

The doctor told me when I came to him with my bleeding heart in my hands at eighteen years old, 

Just wanting a cure for this heart sickness,

This disease of the feelings that everyone has,

That no one

Can 

Cure. 

"It's terminal."

He said,

And ushered me out to deal with someone with a "real" problem,

Leaving me to know

This pain is more real than any I've ever known

And I've broken a bone.

I've cut myself deep.

I've been sick.

This one

This one won't heal,

And I can't just take a pill or take medicine once daily for the next six to eight weeks and you should see improvement,

Because each cut on this heart of mine,

It just bleeds

And bleeds

And bleeds.

I can use smiles and memories and words to patch it,

But sometimes, 

I run out of them

And I'm still left,

That eighteen year old holding a bleeding vessel in her hands waiting for someone to just please fix her,

Until I come along and take my hand,

And tell myself,

"It's terminal,"

But then smile and hug her and say,

"But we're working on a cure."