The dysfunction In Which I Function

(Pre-script: This post pairs beautifully with the song, "Bring Me To Life," #37, so go down to the playlist and click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting.)

Sometimes dysfunctionally is the only way I can function.
Sometimes I can't handle the dysfunction I see in you, if it

bumps into mine too closely or

does not allow room for mine to realize it's full potential.

Sometimes I think to myself,
"Dysfuctionally is the only way I
know how to function so
instead of trying to function, I
am going to stop
functioning for awhile,
fall asleep
here within
my walls four walls
with names I have forgotten
but their meaning can be felt
at every corner,
This is my space and
that is not graffiti on the wall, it is blood
from where I banged my head over and over
in a silent drum beat,
"let me go, let me go,
let me out, let me out."
until finally, the blackout
the sweet numbness of black nothing
which lasts for a night but
leaves scars in the morning
puke and guts and blood and puss
I can look over, step over, ignore
once again, or
I can start to scrub and scour.
I want to say that I will stay and scrub and scour but
sometimes dysfunctionally is the only way I can function.
Can I get an amen to that?

-XOXO,