I tried beautiful,

I tried pristine,

I was no good at it

I’m not neat within

I’m not “clean”

Even externally, I cannot master

Clearing every bit of clutter

I’m raw, like an egg

It’s not pretty to have a cracked head

But if I don’t

I’m practically dead

As inanimate and detached as my wooden bed

To be raw is

Painful,

Ugly,

Messy,

But it’s rich with feeling

A sensory overload of being

Present

To be raw means smashing,

Falling, breaking, spilling-

Mess!

Cover your eyes

Mess!

What distress?!

Mess!

Look away

Mess!

Crises not averted,

Crises introverted,

Inflicted and extraverted

Yes, mess am I

Mess that I am:

A mirage of mess

A monstrosity of mess

A master of mess

A mother of mess

A mesmerised member of mess

Yes, I confess!

I won’t tell you how to live

But

Raw eggs will set you free

Whilst

Pristine pages,

Perfectly folded corners,

Polished pockets of time,

Routines of measure,

Controlled emotion…less

Less

Is less

Don’t confide in your confines

They plot out the lines

Of your prison

And it only ever becomes

Less, less and less

Until you disappear

Or embrace mess