The Farthest Thing From Okay

I’d say

That I’m doing okay

If okay means having

A heart led astray

I’m not okay, okay?

Because okay is a term

That describes a full-time

Teacher or office worker

Who is content with life

Who is the past the mid-life blues

Who is actually doing

Okay.

I’d say

I’m not okay because I want to take a piece of sodden cloth and shove it down a rusted pipeline, clog it and watch the thick grey water leak through the edges then rush over the bolts and I want to take a sledgehammer and crack the kitchen sink in two, let the water flood the tiled floor, the cat running for life, the half washed dishes sinking to the bottom, the plastic mugs rising to the top like buoys on a river of madness. Then I want the water to rush through the entire apartment and stain the carpets and seep through the floor so that the neighbours downstairs get disgusting little drops of kitchen water on their heads, and complain to the manager that I should be terminated. I want the whole apartment to be a jumble of paintings with gaping holes cut through the middle (right through the face), with empty cans of iced tea swimming around like scared ducks, with pages of my diary turning into newspaper mush, with all the televisions and computer screens getting electrified and sparkling like little fireworks, giving out a loud pop before their last breath, with all my possessions buried underneath one another like in a time capsule, consumed by the brackish kitchen water that I purposely unleashed- so now the apartment is a clear representation of what is going on in my mind- a hideous, violent torrent of rage that can only be portrayed through metaphor, because

I am so hurt that

I am angry

An anger I have never felt so strong

That it eats at my arteries

Lemon juice on a sting

Worse, hydrogen peroxide in my eyes

Or you know that feeling when you

Have a stray strand of skin sticking out

By your fingernail? (From lack of vitamins or something)

And then you pick at it and rip it fresh

And let the blood gush out and let it just sit there like a red blob

Like the thick custard in a Boston Cream donut

Just a dollop of blood to remind you that

You are so hurt that

You are angry

So if you ask me how I’m doing

I’ll say I’m okay

Due to mere courtesy

When really I’m on the other spectrum

Of anything to do with okayness

And I’m ashamed of too much

And I’m thinking too much

And my mind is a broken kitchen sink so

How can I possibly lie

One more time

And say I’m okay?

With all these thoughts sc a tt e r ed

(Not that it mattered

To anyone asking me if I’m okay)

Okay?