Mindful

A poem I had written awhile ago and recently found in a notebook that I typed up the other day

My therapist tells me to be mindful. 
I don’t understand what that means.

My mind is so full it’s splitting open, 
A thousand vultures circling, ready to pick the carrion from my bones

I wonder.

I wonder how the word “mindful” can mean “mind-empty”; which is not to be confused with “mindless.” 

It is sitting quietly and taking stock,
Like my thoughts are shelved, and I am merely the overworked clerk taking inventory.
Mindless.

Like the barbs I hurl at you without meaning to, 
littering them around your feet like caltrops because then you can’t leave.
Because I know you won’t leave.
You can’t leave.

Oh, Gods, please don’t leave.

My therapist thought it was a good idea for me to write my thoughts out. 
I don’t understand what she means.

I’ve spent so long poking holes in my memory,
Watching thoughts run through my fingers like quicksilver and pretending
That I’m not being poisoned by them

Pretending like I am ok,
That it’s not a big deal,
While vultures fight over the carcass I call a mind

Writing my thoughts down just seems like an obituary.

I’m fine.

I bite my nails into my skin to remind myself that I’m still breathing.
Like I need a reminder, 
When every breath makes my thoughts spill over like an overflowing cup.

My therapist tells me to be mindful.

I tell her… I don’t know what she means.

Author's Note

Image artwork: https://www.deviantart.com/art/Voices-567363271