In the Month of May

My entire life is an impulse. Every breath, every word, every memory, every moment.

I remember the years before, the memories that plague my mind at any given moment. They are impulses, spurred by the words of a friend or those of a literary "genious." They are memories I had never realized I had kept.
They are impulses.

I stutter and trip over my words. They come out as word vomit. I cannot control what they form, what they come to be when they escape my lips. They fall mishapenly in front of me in a crumpled heap, ashamed and disgusted in themselves.
They are always lies, or harsh truths. There is no middle ground with them. They are lies or truths that could cut deep and harm.
Most of the times, I cannot even remember them spinning in my mind, they just seem to appear out of nothing, floating invisible in the air above me until gravity turns them visible to me and everyone around me.
They frighten me, these uncontrollable words. They never register inside my mind, which makes me wonder how they are even possible to speak. That's how the brain works, right? Impulses sent to the brain form words which are then sent to steady lips. That's how it's supposed to work, that's how it's supposed to be.
That is how it has always been.

I stare back at my memories, my impulses. I close my eyes and roll them backward to let them see the concaves of my swirling hurricane mind. They flinch away from the impulses that have led to so many lies, so many hurt friends. My entire life is an impulse, a terrifying, harmful impulse.

I think nothing through, I think nothing through to find clarity, I only act, only speak. I don't think about how they sound, how they will effect those around me, those involved in their ramblings. I only speak, only act. I know nothing else. I only think when I have time, when my mind screams and slows. I only think when I am forced to by my own mind.

And then I think too much. I frighten myself to pieces, falling through cracks in the bedframe.
I think until insomnia can no longer fight against the heaviness of my eyelids, the slowing of my lungs.

My entire life is an impulse.