Sometimes I just want to pinch off little pieces of my heart and scatter them like so much glittery confetti throughout the roads and vicissitudes of someone else's life.
The problem, of course, is that the more I give away, the harder it is for me to breathe.
So let's send long-distance love by email.
And buoy you up on imaginary balloons.
I'll blow you kisses in a snow-covered New York.
And send happy thoughts your way.
I'll imagine you covered in golden motes of light.
I'll see you healthy in my mind's eye.
And maybe that way I'll fix it so that I really believe what I am pretending is true.
I wish I could bear this burden for you.
But you've passed through the tollbooth of heaven and accepted the cross.
What can I do now? Except tell the Governor
that He'd better let me dance in your crazy.
Explore the shifting panic in your brain.
What's a costume for me is your forever life.
But together, we can make it all right.
I'd swim in your darkness forever and ever.
The rope's in my hand when you come up for air.
I'll lasso you to your other self.
Grieving is a process I am too familiar with.
Let us grieve. Then let us dance.
And proclaim the joy that is our crazy.
The psych ward is only one of our stages;
put on your wig and I'll do the makeup.