The Gallery

My brain is a freakin artist,

Painting consciousness through chemistry.

Hormones blending imperfectly like paint

Poorly matched or a pot of mole sauce,

Never the same color twice.

.

Today, a generous splatter of neurotransmitters

Tomorrow, withheld - like living in the fog of

An Impressionist painting. Some days so thick

That I forget where to find those happy little trees

Or the bather looking back at me.

.

My own DNA lays down brush strokes like bruises.

Punches of red, black and blue, purple fading to

Greenish-yellow, and brown until

Only invisible wounds remain

Encoded in me from before I existed.

.

But these are not my thoughts.

My mind is my own worst enemy and

Trying to love myself feels like *The Scream*

Looking at a Georgia O’Keefe

Surrounded by melting clocks.

.

Here for a limited time.

An exhibit on loan from a galaxy far, far away.

What a masterpiece!