Altitude
I swear,
there are moments
when mania feels like prayer.
The ceiling disappears
and suddenly, suddenly
I’m standing
closer to God
than
gravity
ever
intended.
My thoughts move faster with each breath.
Multiverses rearranging themselves
inside my head.
Every idea is a revelation.
Every heartbeat is a drumline to the divine,
and in those hours,
in those hours,
in those hours
I
am
electric.
Language pours out of me
like prophecy
and I write and I write and I write
as if the universe has mistaken my words for scripture.
Sleep?
Sleep is unnecessary.
Who would choose to close their eyes when heaven is finally speaking?
Who would choose to close their eyes when God, God finally notices me
and I believe them?
I believe that I was chosen
to live in this frequency.
I believe that I was chosen
to see what others miss.
I believe that I was chosen
to feel what others fear
but altitude
is such a dangerous thing.
The higher I climb,
the thinner the air becomes
and suddenly, suddenly
I am standing
further from God
just
like
gravity
intended.
Soon, the multiverses I built begin to collapse
and I am left
on the floor of my own mind
still trying to catch my breath
from the fall.
And they call—
they call this an illness,
but no one ever talks about the grief of
coming
back
down.
Because when the sky closes again
and gravity remembers who I am,
I am the one mourning the version of myself
who thought they could touch the clouds.
Some nights I lie awake wondering
if madness is just the body’s way
of trying to hold
too
much
heaven
at
once.
