Sometimes I wear a crown of flowers on my head.
Sitting loosely on the top of my forehead
as I jump from cloud to cloud,
becoming a cloud myself,
allowing everything that’s filled me up like condensation to spill out at once.
A refreshing rainstorm of things I want to forget,
speeding to the ground where it collects in puddles
I can barely see
from my mountaintop of air
thousands of feet above.
And sometimes it’s great,
and I let it all fall
I hope I never see it again
and I can be content with it accumulating
I can’t see.
People splashing in it on the ground
while I laugh from above
but it feels slow,
which is a beautiful thing.
But sometimes those things don’t fall out of me like water.
Sometimes I wear a crown of rubber bands.
I don’t even notice at first.
They add slowly,
adding on and tightening.
uncomfortably tight on my head
unbearably tight on my head
until I can’t focus.
I think only of the skin around the bands
trying to stretch,
to accommodate the force pushing it inward
The skin separating,
The pressure in my brain increasing
as the rubber bands constrict closer, inward,
the top of my head grows and
it’s full to bursting
with important nonsense.
The crown I like the least, but is the hardest to take off.
Sometimes I wear a crown of hands.
Which I like,
and I ask for more often than not.
Each with their own opinions,
poking me with ideas,
stroking my hair when they love me
and slapping my cheek when I’m stupid.
Offering up ideas with their ready palms,
palms worn in with marks of experience
and tired from constant suggesting.
They’re all trying to squeeze out what they don’t like
through my ears
and shove in what they do.
every hand does,
but their pointing fingers can burn too much
and press too far into my head
and push me to say, “Thanks, but I don’t need you right now.”
I wish all of that rain wouldn’t speed so fast downward,
and that maybe it would solidify just enough
just long enough
to roll down my arms like little balls of gelatin
pleasant and cool,
and gather in a bowl
so I can go back to the ground with it,
forget about it for a while, but
and save it for later.
And I wish those rubber bands were more like ribbons,
all different colors,
tight enough to seal in all of that important nonsense,
but relieve some pressure,
allow me to breathe,
keep my skin intact.
And I wish those hands would loosen their grip from my head sometimes,
and just stroke my back,
or hold my hand
just to feel our marks,
some of them the same,
pushing back on each other,
and find a little comfort in that.
And sometimes I don’t want to wear anything on my head.
Is that ok?