The Infestation of Epiphany

by M. Allshouse

I am not crazy.

The lexicon spinning in my psyche

is a warm, comforting blanket

stitched by parts of me I never met—

whispering ill-fated futures

and corrupted regret.

I am not crazy.

I am a different level of sane,

reaching epiphanies most ignore

to save face in society’s streets.

These fragments are broken glass.

Each reflection still shows me—

just a shift in perspective.

I’m terrible with names.

Maybe that’s why I call them

all parts of me—

because I’ve long forgotten

the names of the trauma

that birthed them.

Birthed these parts I hide

like larvae in my brain.

The infestation is clear.

But I—

I am not insane.