Record

Upon meeting someone new, or someone I had not seen in a while, my mind would shift to overdrive, constantly replaying what I said. The conversation and what I said would play in my head over and over until it felt like every possible negative scenario had been played out. By the time my mind was finished, there was no possibility of recalling the moment joyfully. In these moments, I picture my mind as a room, completely empty, except for an old-school record player, a bookshelf full of perfect records and massacred ones decorating the walls. Each record is a thought, the machine is my brain, and the stylus is my mind. The brain houses the mind, while the mind wreaks havoc on each and every thought.

The stylus of my machine

Leaves a permanent mark.

If my every thought is a record

Of the decisions I’ve made,

Then each reflection is not mint;

It is massacred yet displayed.

Let us put one in;

Allow it to spin a couple of times,

Let the groove of my stylus 

Dig deep in the vinyl mime.

My mind’s throat, wrists,

And femoral artery

All sliced in unison:

A stylus’ surgery.

With each revolution

The needle digs deeper.

Ignore trypanophobia;

This is a failed minesweeper.

The tip of the instrument

Is denser than osmium.

The muscles of my mind climb

Over the matter that digs in.

There is no off button.

No stopping the turn.

No way to lift

The roman candles burn.

A scab cannot form

As with each millisecond

This battered thought 

Is once again beckoned.

Each of these records

Is sadistically attracted 

Until every negative outcome 

Has been brutally extracted.

And when that stylus

Finally breaks though the vinyl,

It is stored on the shelf.

The next one: suicidal.

On the shelf, those records 

Are scarred, not broken,

And though they weigh so much,

Their record will never be spoken.

I cannot break these records:

Their scars are all of my regrets; postmarked.