The Cracks

When I was younger and struggling with trauma,

All I wanted was for my father to

Check me into a mental health facility

So I could look at everyone else and go

I'm not the crazy one here.

But maybe crazy is in the cracks of my fourth grader voice

When I sang the same Tim McGraw song in front of the class

Every day for a year, hoping my classmates would sing my praises

And forget that I was weird, or forgive me for 180 days of country music.

Maybe crazy is in the cracks of memories

I altered to make a better story.

Maybe crazy is in the cracks

Of my skin when I rub it raw.

Maybe crazy is in the cracks in my energy when I don't eat for three weeks

To see if anyone compliments my weight loss

Or asks if I'm okay, like a check up

That doesn't come with a $30 co-pay.

Maybe crazy is the cracks in my logic

When I say I've romanticized my mental illness

Because of the attention I get for being different

Even though being different hurts to think about too.

Maybe crazy is what hold my fragments together;

Gorilla glue to my porcelain.

Obvious, yet effective.

Not making me perfect, but making me whole.