I am as strange a substance to you as I am to myself. Uncomfortable with the inherent guise, I am not settled inside my body. Every curve and every twist is an itch that turns into a wound.
I bleed and the taste of blood is not the familiar. When I was eight years old my finger scratched against a wooden board, I sucked the blood and was addicted to the flavor of my veins.
At ten, I no longer found home in the little fragile personality. I was strong in every diluted shade.
At sixteen, I look back and I find no familiarity. The ordinary is as un-routine as it can be.
At eighteen I survive three-day migraines and my temples burst with notions of self-destruction.
This isn’t me; I am as alien to you as I am to myself. I’ve fucked too many times to understand what my body means. I’ve learned too many words to understand what they actually connotate. I’ve lived too many lives to understand how death will scare and take away the strongest. A lifetime’s worth of multitudes is a line of too many segments it becomes a set of aimless points. I become apathetic; an avid observer of my former self.
Every single one of me does not know. I am still uncomfortable but addicted to my body. It doesn’t fit, but it feels wonderful to not completely be. An intermittent stage of disknowledge.
I am as foreign as my thoughts are to the outside temples.
beyond 