Easy for you to say. You’re not the one having a meltdown in the pantry labelling pea cans, hell-bent and helpless in the meantime to hear comforts, you’re trying to help. It could be worse, it could be worse I could believe, like my sister, the house will burn down if only I put boots on in the wrong order. She’s the only one of us who owns her litany of acronyms, she got them last year, she says it’s genetic, they’re genetic, she says they’re the family architecture, I say stop talking please. You’re trying to help. Your grandfather didn’t crawl with garden scissors to snip blades the mower missed around fence posts, no one questioned, it's absurd to think of telling him what to do. I know, I know, I should be able to handle life, I should but it’s absurd. Tell me what I am and I’ll apologize for it. Dammit, let me sort the fucking peas. You don’t know. You’ve never inherited a clacking symphony of buzzing June bugs, they don’t pinball around your brain, no righteous, rigid Baptist in your skull conducting them around like angry confetti. Tell me if I should be sorry. I don’t know. I only check my doors three times before bed, only ever manic three days at a time, only, only sort the peas when I need to, only claw my forearm only sometimes when motorcycles rev past the window. Only let you see me like this because I trust you. Go ahead, tell me what monster that makes, tell me. You’re not the one who has to live in here. I am.