in Disguise

You carrry mental illness in your bones like a family heirloom no one else wanted to take on and you were the last one holding it when the music stopped. The bartender remembers you now, asks if you want him to turn the lights up for your reading. You nestle into your regular seat in the corner and shake your head, prefer to let the darkness envelope you. This is the gift of the writing bar, a soft vacuum, an absence of time, you never want to do anything else. At the base of your spine, you begin to remember something about who it is you used to be, like a quiet but steady dial tone just outside your range of hearing, persistently vibrating against the inside of your skin. 

Everything returns. We went to the ends of the earth, to the edges of humanity, but we are still here, in one way or another. 

Take a deep breath. Get a firm grip on the hot potatoes you were given . 

And keep walking.