as a collective, we posses fragmented memories
broken memories
memories lost in haze
and memories saturated in red
memories of yesteryear, reminisced after a six pack of beer
dog-eared and torn, degraded and worn
haphazardly recalled to the forefront of our minds
coloring in the forgotten spaces with the most colorful crayon
discarded at the bottom of your childhood closet
warped and yellowed
we are afflicted by the warped and yellowed pages in the back of our heads

and that is how we come to be
the people, the places- your hopes and dreams
everything shaded by a veil of ambiguity
the veil of death
nothing is real, anymore
(if it ever was)
nothing is original
no one will ever live up to the expectations you hold over them
not the girl sitting in the back of your sophomore year bio class
not the boy with a broken past and a broken (and burned) wrist
sitting back to back

nothing is precious
and no one is innocent
original thought is dead
original content is dead
origins are a fallacy
and i am a non-believer
we are, as a collective, one
wearing a mask of a dead girl’s skin
collecting personalities like seashells
grotesque piles of rotting flesh piled high
suffocating me

me?
ripping away at the light
at the others, the half-people
forcing chunks of decaying flesh down my throat
covering my decomposing body; piled high around me
the impending doom of the tidal wave of stolen lives
broken memories, broken truths, broken lives
waiting to crash over me and take back what is theirs
false prophets screaming convoluted cries of conviction
the chaos of knowing that what is me is hollow
and that what is really left of me is dead

(a.m.) 06/29/16