i already miss flying
high above myself,
unaware of every ****
i should be giving.

i plant flowers in my
wounds instead,
fully aware—I feel them
grow from me
& bloom.

painful, beautiful.

and so powerful.

I used to find power in
deflecting
neglecting
rejecting &
subjecting myself.

healing is hurting.
healing is hurting.

hurt people hurt people.
but healed people heal people.
and maybe sometimes they’re the same person.

I disassociate to my "friends" lives scrolling by,
I don't need any spliff or fungus to reach
Peak apathetic  non self congruence.
Watching years pass by in seconds
Is all the psychedelic room temperature
Mental priming for my primate mental
That I could ever hope for

Before being snapped back out
By the cubed carrot reward of
Internet interaction
Which keeps me salivating and searching
For ways to increase the amount of time
I don't have to associate with that guy inhabiting my body
For a while I can see my problems as goners
Being slowly erased from my mind like a magnet over a hard drive

Until a kindly panic attack reminds my of
My lack of lack of control
And the selfless self centered guilt keeps me
Wishing I were working instead of living
Who could be so audacious
As to propose a life out side

Eyes open
Phones broken
Alarms on
Cars warm
Show up
Clock in
Do my work
Get paid
Clock out
Drive home
Feel drained
Close my eyes
Can't express
How I feel
Do I feel?
Sigh
Breathe in
Breathe out
Sleep

breathe. in. out.
what do you see?
computer-ruler-pen-calculator. sticky note. sticky note.
desk.
bag. chair.
what else do you see?
person-person--person---person----person.
who?
i don't know.
where are you?
does it matter?
who are you?
i forgot.
what are you?
disassociating.

I'm so nostalgic these days
and I know you've heard that all before
the whole "I'm listening to old songs on repeat
and re-reading the broken stories I keep
to find myself again" thing—but hear me out.
No, this time I really mean it
Nostalgia is not a dark cloud lingering above my head
but a thunderstorm rumbling below my feet
and every moment of every day I'm tumbling through it
and trying to pretend I don't see concrete
hurdling towards me
like it has some twisted sense of vengeance,
some sort of hunger for my life.
And occasionally perhaps I can forget how broken I feel, and be content with what this is.
But this is a small life and it's an even smaller smile
when laughing at your jokes but turning up a noise-dial
in my head
so that I don't have to hear myself think
let alone breathe
over the chatter about how unremarkable I've become.

There's no sanctity to my mind,
no peace in my heart,
and no rest for my spirit.

So I'm nostalgic,
and yes, I mean it.
I'm listening to old songs on repeat.
Combing through ancient poems and pictures;
staring at a face that once upon a time, shared my likeness—
but now she mirrors my demons.

disassociating *******
consciousness, far from here
lost amongst the clouds in the sky
as I come down, they follow me
fog lays softly upon the ground I walk on