if you ran away itd have to be digital and thats pathetic.

its just downright sad you have to eat bites of gigabytes to survive because you cant swallow meat, that to live unfettered youd have to string copper wires through your veins, but youve never been anything but capital p Pathetic so you think you can stand that idea.  

after all, it was the unfeeling internet anonymous who taught you to breathe deeply when you were anxious, and how the messy act of human reproduction worked (imperfect and fleshy, you thought). they taught you words your living tongue refuses to pronounce. between chat programs and status updates you formed multimedia connections, held fast by streams of text and data, and even now they seem more real than anything reality has presented you.

in an era far away with a hint of nostalgia you freely immerse yourself in childhood where your friends homes are only a click away. you feed them dinner with a sense of purpose. Technology has made it possible

today, my friend,

teach me in the ways
of joy,

i have had lessons enough
in sorrow,

i do not desire to learn the ways of anger.

so please, teach me joy.

i promise, i will learn,
with thoughtful, thoughtless abandon.

i used to care about things.

like whether or not you messaged me back
or why it is wrong to swallow glass
and choke up prisons.

i used to care about people who traced triangles from the burn marks on their wrists
and now i am one of them.

i used to care if i looked pretty at every angle
i used to bend my neck until i felt stabbing pains
so you would keep telling me how beautiful i am.

i guess some things never change. especially those things.
i guess some things are just universal

just like truth isnt.

i remember the way love used to taste
it crept up my sternum, crawled up the back of my throat, strangled my tongue, and leaped out of my mouth with a trembling, shaking "i don't know how to feel like this anywhere else so please let me stay"
although there was an eviction notice stuck in between the door and the frame but i didn't open the door, to leave, to see it
and i used to look at people who could find something good and run from it and wonder how they could possibly do that when i ran to every doorstep, pleading for someone to let me in and planting my feet firmly into their ground as soon as they did
there are pieces of myself in every corner of these rooms, every crack in these walls, clumped in bathroom sink drains and i understand now
the more love you give that is unrequited, the less you have to give out again

and i'm only a few drunken, empty i-love-you's away from running dry

you really believe we are not more than we are
at the table or in our waking-up gestures or while we throng
in the morning in front of the newspaper stands or in the long autumn evenings
when we come back home with the same and the same movements
down the same and the same streets?

those from tomorrow will stop asking this question.
but us, now and here, isolated by the language which will put an end to it,
it's in vain that we dug with our fingernails into the mortar, in vain that we've stood
glued to the walls: from over there not a thing could be heard -
in the blind alley of our speech the answer can't be worked out yet.

and only seldom have we opened our eyes and then merely to see
how there are poured over us as if over coffins
tons of unknown. and right then we closed them back up
quickly and we said it's not true, we are still alive, i still am alive, he lives
he lives - i touched the one who was lying next to me
he is alive - he turned over in his sleep he laughed he sighed.

you really believe we haven't been heard in any other room
which we didn't have time to enter?
either the room was not yet walled up or nobody lived in there yet
or those who will come to live in it will show up too late or
were there but didn't hear us when we knocked on the walls or others
knocked on the walls too then and they alone were heard
or we didn't notice when we stepped from one room into another
from one basement into another or we didn't want to break down the walls
of the last room out of fear not to, or we couldn't imagine that beyond
that basement there could be other rooms, lit other than by
this lye pouring through the cracks of the back door
or the front doors were not yet walled in and no other
room was yet walled in over there -

then we rushed voraciously back upon own body,
we went downstairs and pulled furiously the trap doors above us -
in a fury as if in a province of self-forgetfulness
as in the womb of a woman from which we shouldn't have ever
come out.

Ioan Es. Pop, excerpt from " you really believe we are not more than we are here", **The Livid Worlds

I feel isolated and alone,
removed from myself,
like being in an empty box with no door,
like a cage with no bars,
under lock and key,
my own prison in my head,
im in survivor mode