Crying for the first time in months is like running your hands in hot water, right after from being in the cold all day. It stings, pins and needles. Like how my own heartache isn't enough. While they sit there drunk with friends, and I'm here alone. A empty house full of ruins. And my lungs hurt from shouting louder than a hurricane.

There is a face in my mirror
I do not recognize--
blurry and dark around
the edges.
Static black and white
forms a portrait
of vaguely familiar nature.
I study closely
as it distorts
in size and distance.

A hand reaches out
and
I wonder
who it belongs to.
Tracing my eyes along the foreign limb
I see a body
I somehow feel I should know.

I close my eyes
and

f
       a
          d
                   e
                              a
                                 w
                                      a
                                                y.

So, there's this musical that I've become obsessed with.
That's normal, right?
Yeah.
I suppose.
Naturally, I've been listening to the soundtrack.
Over and over and overandoverandover because that's what I do.
I replay things until they're so old I can't bring myself to care.
But that isn't the focus of this one - that'll be covered another time, when I have a chance, when I've got a life.
A song on this soundtrack that I seem to favor is titled "Waving Through A Window", and I'm just amazed by the artistry of this particular song. It's so focused, guys.
It's real.
The singer is trapped behind a personality he's built up for himself, you know?
It reminds me of me - trapped behind a hypothetical "window" of sorts, fighting myself just to get out and be seen for once.
But there's also that fear of not being liked, of not being accepted, because I'm really a horribly numb human and I don't want to scare anybody away.
So I guess I'll just keep waving through this ******* window.

I am not who I think I am—
I never said I was

Sometimes I’m
a monster—
swirling, yellowgreen skin,
bristly coils of
hair sticking
out,

strumlike underneath
your fingertips—

sometimes I’m
a normal guy,
angry and hungry
with greasy-tousled
greasy locks—

or a subaverage
woman,
curvy and compassionate,
warm *****
beckoning to all
bereft—

most often, I’m a
translucent ghost,
too little there
yet not enough gone,
genderless,
formless,
obsolete

peeking through
slowly, carefully
through the cracks
in my brain
the cracks
of reality

how would it feel
being present in
my mind and my body
feeling real, feeling safe
my brain is vicious,
seeping poison running
through black tinted veins

i am Alice
falling down the hole
again

Golden hour daughter
Splitting eyes gouging light—
Harboring disfunction, not
Finding sensory stimulation
Beyond illusion— overactive/>

Am I a life force,
Or a chair for it to sit?

Stitching pixels to form—
A drive to keep an open
Ripped rib wind— about  
My drouth stomach,
Itching, salivating…