“Who am I?”
I always ask myself.
And whenever I do
Countless of flashbacks races before my eyes
Telling me that I am this and I am that
Making me feel uncomfortable on my own skin
Confusing me

“Who are you?”
I ask again
But I don’t really know

"Who are you?"
For the third time I ask myself
And I remember how I used to be
Acting differently between people I meet

And for the last time
“Who are you?” I ask
Still, flashbacks
The memories of me being innocent
Memories of me being a monster
And I ask myself again

"Who am I?"

I hear the vacant screams within my mind, I wait for the day to melt  into the sublime.

How did I get so sick? The devil Parades my existence and pokes my sensitive skin with a stick.

I value solitude, just enough to devour my loneliness, this wretched illness I suffer alone, I pray to my soul to take me home.

"Right here," [points at heart] "you're dead."
"And right here," [points at head] "you're twisted."
Borderline personality disorder.
A curse.
I am alone, empty, freezing, starving, withering.
I am sorry.
Always sorry.
Sorry to so many.
I am doomed.
I am alone.
I am twisted.
I am desperate.

A wind chime old and rusting on your grandmother’s porch
The song not as clear as it once was
The new tune so softly eerie that to a passerby it seems just fine

Waking up five minutes before your alarm
Sitting on your bed, wide awake
Just watching the time tick pass, minutes of your life
Until you’re past the time to go

In the idle of traffic, you become aware
Of all the movement around you
Babies whine, horns honk, people sing
Yet here you are
What are you doing?
Are you doing anything at all?

Your bed is a coffin, dusty from the days you don’t open it at all
The sunlight is foreign to your eyes
People prance around you, basking in its glory
They don’t even blink at your inability to see the light.

In the cemetery,
Gravestones surround you,
Bodies of the lost and souls of the ******
You can’t help but resonate somewhere deep inside your soul.
Not that you wish to be dead, no.
Just that it seems you already are.

so you're disappointed
that you're disappointed
and maybe that's to be expected
some folks make beds
out of their catharsis
differently than others
it's this list
of things you lost in the fire
or how jealous you are
of people
who never came back up for air
you're crying
so the faucets leak out of solidarity
& someone asks you
why the floor is wet
so you tell them
"we've been weeping here forever"
then they want to give you
a mouth full of presupposition
by saying
"are you going down with the ship?"
& you look them in the mouth
like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe
five decks down
you look at them
like you just woke up
from that dream everyone has
where all their teeth fall out
maybe it's an intervention
a hearse vs station wagon origin story
a clearance sale
& everything's gotta go
or maybe it's the dream
where you're at the docks
from your childhood
and there's a little girl
unmooring all the ships
because she thinks
they'll float away
but every time
she unties them
they just sink




                                          they just sink