It's like you're left with extreme paralyzing psychosis, or deja vu, or an epiphany that you greet with swinging fists and bouts of palpitating aggression that doesn't have any sense of direction.
It's like when you try unlocking the door to your house, but the locks have been replaced with new ones and there are people inside that you don't recognize but they're strewn across your expensive living room set that you bought when you were manic.
Then you realize that your home has replaced you. This always happens.
Maybe this is the plot twist to your life. You're the one that's haunted and your house is afraid of opening the door when you arrive.
See, perhaps it's tired of being inhabited but not being properly lived in.
You don't remember seeing an eviction notice but it feels exactly the same like the time he abandoned you during a thunderstorm.
Except it wasn't raining but your mind was already creating apparitions of puddles and floods.
You can't say goodbye to things, you can't let go. You claw and you scream but nothing ever comes back.
It's like missing the last train home. Like, forgetting about your birthday. It's like deleting a number knowing full well that you have it memorized but it's the thought that counts. right?

When I was a child, I was the riverbed's bend. The silhouette of a person from far away smoking a cigarette. I was the blushing sunset and the barred teeth of nightfall, moon's jutted chin and all.
But as I grew up, people became less tree-house, more crawlspace.
In his drunken days, my father once went out with a crowbar shouting at god for giving me clinical depression instead of a man or a hobby.

When I was a child, I would hold hands the way you hold a loaded gun. No one told me that some people are bullet teeth, trigger wounds, and pistol shot screams. That I would become one of these statistics. Those analogies. My grandfather once told me that the bravest people of all sometimes go a little mad. But you have to find the darkest recess of your mind and tell it that you know what it looks like with the lights on. I no longer need a flashlight.

When you're a child, you're the billow of a skirt. The hum of a refrigerator door in July. You could be the sun's glare or the sky's mouthpiece. But as you grow up, you start blowing out candles for other people's birthdays. You begin looking at the cracks of pavement rather than moths clinging to streetlamps. your house slumps its shoulders whenever you open the door. and why?

if none of this makes sense, regard it as a poem.