Writing Cleans My Mind
Who I call in the middle of the night to drive me home when I have had too much to think,
The dustpan and the broom that sweeps me off the floor when I am broken into a thousand pieces,
The glue that puts me back together,
The mop that cleans up aisle Gregory when I have spilled myself across the marketplace.
The diligent maid who vacuums under the couch and dusts the corners of my mind,
The barge that dredges the bottom of my brain to remove the darkest mud,
The junkyard manager who crushes old and worn-down thoughts in the machine that flattens cars,
The garbage man that takes out the trash of my mind.
The highest option at the car wash that deep cleans my mind and then applies a protective layer of mental wax,
What allows me to unpack the suitcase of thoughts I have been carrying around as I see which thoughts should be thrown away and which ones simply need washing,
My teacher, mentor, coach, therapist, best friend, and most intimate lover,
The one person who has seen the darkest depths of my mind and still unconditionally loves me.
The best listener who never judges me,
The stoic guard who stands outside of Buckingham Palace, keeping watch without ever breaking character,
The medicine that keeps me healthy and happy,
My guide, the knower of all things, the wise elder, and the village oracle,
The teacher I had in college who pushed me further than I ever thought was possible.
The bandage that heals my wounds while applying enough pressure to ensure I don’t lose my appendages,
The most beautiful person I have ever met, the one who has morals of gold and who reminds me of my parents,
The purest drug that intoxicates me without a nasty comedown,