You describe a girl draped in red,
Huddled on a rocking chair.
I look everywhere aghast,
Recalling a similar episode from the past.
When you scrawled her name all over the wall,
And bought her a vinyl doll.
You tell me about persecutory delusions,
About supernatural illusions.
About travelling in different time zones,
Or moving between periods of history in different lives.
Someone visiting you with sleek knives.
About zooming lights,
And noises that are too bright.
A looming presence behind you,
Shadows in a queue,
Some passing along the corner of your eyes.
A three-legged spider that flies.
The voices in your head,
Sometimes innocuous, derisive the other.
Triggering violent behaviour, blunted emotions.
“I had enough,” you cried.
“I can’t take this mental fog!”
Dear brother, don’t give up!
I’ll be your rock.
Your new perception of reality,
Or frail mental state,
Is not a preordained fate.
You are no human anomaly,
Or monster wrapped in human skin.
Maybe you need some compliance with medicines,
And change will begin.
It’s an imbalance of chemicals.
Don’t hold yourself reprehensible.
You are a warrior,
And remember, this might get gorier.
But, in this waking nightmare,
In this arduous walk,
Don’t you give up yet,
Because I’ll always be your rock.
Featured image credit: Poh Wei Chuen/Unsplash