Clover hearted

Myself to come home to

A miscellaneous chapter focusing on psychosis/psychological themes and everyday subjects.
TW: hallucinations

House of a mind
Despite the weather the house typically remains deafeningly yellow.
The yellow house wears patches of mold, loudly sunny and rotting, the yellow house has moss climbing its edges.
I step onto the front porch, it has tapestries and tarot cards on display, the wood is soft, some people notice, some people don't. It smells like lavender incense. Some mornings I sit on my knees and pray here, some I don't. I feel safe here, if I allow myself to. My front porch is watched over by someone, I write them love letters but I am unsure where to send them.
I step into the living room, it is large and full with sage green walls. I admire the teddy bears and colorful paintings. There are many visitors here, maybe some will stay. I hang my paintings on the wall. It is loud, sometimes with good reason.
The bathroom is hollow with mold in different places. Most guests can tell things have been rearranged. The walls always change color. "No more hiding places" is written on the mirror in red lipstick.
The kitchen is healing and whole. The kitchen is where guests become loved ones, maybe some will stay. The cabinets are full, although I don't know what they have within them. The walls are written on, some authored by frequent visitors, some by strangers.
The bedroom has light blue walls with poems passionately hung on them. The definitions of words and colorful banners fill the walls.

Sleepy season
Sometimes the day is yellow and airy, sometimes the day is an ache in your shoulders but you always have yourself to come home to.
You do the lovely little things you always do, you scrub yourself under hot water, you ramble about your day in your diary, you tuck yourself into bed and let your mind run freely.
You watch gray scribbles climb out of your hands as if the ache is making its way out of you.
You watch the cat become the bunny and become the frog that once was a duck.
You see tiny people walk across your nightstand, little shadows making a story of themselves.
I watch as light pulses and alluring patterns within patterns.
I listen to the voices tell me the words I have been looking for in every book I ever read.
I step outside myself and watch as I interact with something which cannot be seen by those around me.
He looks up from his hands and tells me to see the beauty in that, he tells me to see the beauty in learning to love a mind with abnormal perceptions.

March 17th
"Whatever you're doing, knock it off, you're smarter than that!"
I walk barefoot with a bright big smile on my face.
I wait in the cold night to show him my poetry.
I see a lovely cat prancing in the streets.
We talk about being different like it's a good thing.
I realize I've been too hard on myself, that expecting perfection will get me nowhere.
I watched a movie about drugs and the 1920s music scene.
I hide under the covers and listen to the sound of rain.
I write "take care of yourself" on the back of my hand.
We enjoy conversations about things I once left unseen.
I write diary entries and poems that read like a strange story from a mad man.
He tells me he loves to write poetry, that his sad poems are his favorite.
I wear a blue collared shirt under under a gray sweater with a half broken locket.
I feel a sense of fear about choking on my own vomit.