Back when you were god and
you hated me
and everything I did was evil,
your voice set up home in my mind,
and it emerges from the
depths to which I banished it,
saying, What if I'm right?
And you'll have to walk every
thing you do back, walk through your
entire life backwards? It's funny the way
my disorder is you—my second mind,
which I've somehow named the normal one, and
that I've learned my wandering healthy
brain shouldn't let touch anything it, rarely, does.
Every time I think you're gone,
you show up outside my mind
and pry yourself to my top,
and I didn't know the piece of me
that tells me to subjugate myself
was just you still exercising your control.
But I still do not
wish to be mastered, and thankfully,
I do still recall how to
shake my finger back.
Lydia Rae Bush is a poet writing on embodiment and social-emotional development. Rae’s work is Best of the Net nominated and can be found in publications such as Vocivia Magazine and Corporeal. Lydia’s chapbook Free Bleeding is forthcoming with dogleech books. Socials: @LRBPoetry
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