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.