I am.

I am dyslexic. 
Numbers and letters and words like to rearrange themselves as they enter my brain,
put down their logic and have a mini key party.
Swapping partners and creating strange couples that don’t make sense. 
Most of the time, I can keep the players somewhat organized. 
I can wrangle some sort of sense out of them before the words leave my mouth. 
That is to say, I have imperfect success with letters and words. 
I can see where they are going and force them to follow the path.
The numbers, however, are wily stubborn asses. 
They often refuse to stay coherent and logical.
The like to dance around in circles and create swirly patterns that don’t compute.

I am dyslexic.
But most people are unaware. 
I keep it secreted,
disguised as careful speech and a calculated need for accuracy.
Until a migraine joins the chaos, affecting the fingers as well as the thoughts.
Until its fractured lights and throbbing heart beats an uneven tattooed pulse in my eye.
It is then the key party becomes drunken mess, an acid trip, a lost weekend.
Numbers and letters hook up,
making combinations no one understands.
And the aftermath of hung-over phrases stumbling about,
and fingers unable to find the exact letter on the keyboard, the correct key in the bowl.
It would be entertaining were it not for the waves of thoughts dancing just out of reach
And the frustrating pace of one step forward, eight steps back.

I am dyslexic.
But today, I am nothing but broken furniture, used condoms
and red solo cups on the lawn.
Because today, I am migraine.