I go to Ikea after being forced to confront my childhood sexual trauma over the phone with my mother.

the mug is grey.

it is short and round.

contemporary almost.

I have not used it.

it sits buried on a shelf in the kitchen

and I fear the day someone touches it

like it is going to suddenly explode.

I am here for a wardrobe.

a set of cabinets that will help

me arrange my life

organize myself and belongings

finally, be free of the clutter on my floor

my mother's voice echoing

through the empty showcases

"Why didn't you tell me? I specifically asked you if anything had happened."

you are the kettle to my black pot.

my body is slowly shaking apart

the silence of the word, "what?"

whispered into a cellphone

listening ears all around

a star collapsing into itself

a black hole forming

she has no right.

each step is heavy

act normal.

make a joke.

laugh. make eye contact.

there are marks on my skin that have been uncovered

can you see the flesh? the bones, the puss-filled maggots

can you smell it now?

put your hand in my side, and know the real me.

there is a future I will never get the chance to have

buried in the back of a bathroom shelf organizer

and the concept of a headboard.

and that's the worst part of it now

-the want.

I want

for the first time in over twenty years I want

and I hate the wounded animal living in my skin

it's so needy.

it is not kind.

nobody wants that.

nobody.

I am so far from okay

I am standing on top of it

in a different plane of existence

looking at it

but unable to touch it.

have you ever wanted to die?

I wonder what it's like

to not feel,

but I remind myself

I've been there before,

and if I dont stop bleeding soon

I will have to see a doctor.

and they will open me up

look at my clockwork insides

the schematic instructions

for what a human should be set up

beside me on the table

and they will say,

yes, this ones broken.

they will poke and prod

and listen with a stethoscope.

my clockwork rhythm out of tune

skipping a beat,

"I am fine" I will say

"I have always been like this"

and I don't know if that's the sad part

that I know what unfixable means

or that I got so used to it,

I just assumed that's what music sounded like.