Cuando yo muero,
yo muero.
No habrá más
que la vida que tengo

Pero no vivo mi vida
porque el tiempo
constantemente pasa,
mientras yo fallo el momento.

Qué, de repente, es el presente
hace un momentito, había sido el futuro
y más temprano que tarde,
el entero de mi vida se hunde en el pasado.

“¿Dónde fuiste? ¿Dónde vas?”
Con desesperanza, yo grito
hacia aquel agujero ***** del tiempo.
“Estoy aquí, contigo” responde el momento.

Ahora estoy bajo del agua,
no sé cuánto lleva yo he estado aquí,
mientras el presente está arriba,
mi vida no espera para mí.

Chaos devours me;
let's small talk and pretend that
everything's fine.

i keep my depression locked in a box.
it's not a particularly large one,
or anything ornate
but a box nonetheless.
it's roughly the shade of a rain cloud
about to burst.
it has a vague beauty about it.
this box has the innocence of a small child
the mystery and danger
of Pandora's box.

the more i think about it
it's not just one box.
i have enough boxes,
to build a castle
much like one a toddler would build.
my depression,
my anxiety,
my fears,
my love.
boxes stacked,
neatly, rows.
they fit around eachother,
forming a larger box.

sometimes i wonder
if the state of the boxes
determines how i feel.
if the anxiety box is knocked to the left
am i more anxious?
if it falls off the tower,
am i going to lose it completely?

i keep all of my feelings in perfectly square boxes
each a different shade of rain cloud
all stacked neatly,
in order.

Change is necessary.
Right?

Change is a good thing?
Right?

Change is
Scary and confusing.

Change scares the hell out of me.
Change leaves me in a state of frustration.

Change can heal the soul and tear it apart.
Leaving little pieces scattered about.

But I must think of little caterpillars that turn into beautiful butterflies.

Change is necessary.

The air brushes, cool against my skin,
it hits me like a new day.
Warm pitter patter on my arms,
undercutting scent of soil,
and a heavy pull on my life force,
dragging me out,
pulling me in.

The dim light shimmer on the wrinkled tar,
cracked and patterned,
like the skin of a gecko.
I've been walking for years but it's been a millennium,
and I'm tired of walking but I want the future.

Now I'm at my car,
now I'm at my car.

from the cold road houses visible without wires
entrenched in white snow that made my vision dance
various floaters organized in armies playing war
out in the cold, the ground was a movie screen
the dancers became shadows when the sunset
made me want to go home, made my head hurt
winter light weaving through the trees
light like a plague, a frozen swarm of locusts
or a woman walking in slow motion, the day decomposed
those houses when we parked and walked to them
were not houses, they were barns, the windows, doors
all were painted in detail on pieces of plywood
deceptive chipping curtains out in the cold by the road