the room as a plane (of existence)

you have a place in my room.

my plasma of thoughts float around in smoke rings I blow but I think I try to suffocate the ghosts of us. 

that night or pre-morning or morning; time stretched the memory of us in there. but the room still emanates with the smell of your memory. 

it’s still vivid, it’s colors more vibrant than the ghosts of past nights.

between talking to you in the afternoons and lamenting with the ghost of you in the evenings, there are moments interspersing your presence with mine. I toy with your presence, I wish it diluted mine but it brings it front and center and back and in between. my self stretches across the canvas starting from the actual version of you and the idealized. i treat you like i treat myself and that is how i know i love you. 

i do not buffer or pad my thoughts i just am. and i let you be. whichever way you come to me as, actual or idealized. i do not toy with you the way i do with the others. you’re different or rather you are the present and you may walk amongst the others if i run fast enough ahead or you may choose to run alongside me because i will attempt to flee onwards away from you and myself. away from the moment and onwards to the next. 

most of them never catch the flight i am on. the flight from myself or rather to myself is one most people do not board. 

and if i knew i was boarding it i probably would choose to stay behind; recreating the flight from myself yet again.

awareness doesn’t change the flight it only hastens it with the anxiety of consciousness.

blanket of sadness

i think the most frustrating thing about sadness is that it’s a blanket that

covers

and comforts

once you’ve been swaddled in it

for long enough

but it’s almost always

too small

a blanket

it still allows hope to filter through

the wide knit

sometimes your feet slip out from under

for sadness to cover you

you have to try to hunch your self over

combusting self-esteem

collapsing lungs

mind in fetus position

if one limb

or one feeling

stretches out

beyond the confines of the

warmth

of loneliness

the guise of comfort collapses

the struggle of inescapability

is not the state

but rather the impossibility of its existence

the embedded instinct-

tectonic plates shift

why wouldn’t your feelings

–

hearing the sound of a broken autumn leaf as your foot treads on

that is how satisfying it would be to crush that self-preserving instinct

all it takes is a deep breath before the slitting

i’ve been wanting to leave for so long

it matters very little why

and it matters a lot how

melting pot of allegories

i’m seeking refuge from my

mind

i’ve been fleeing

nations of torment

and cultures of you

everywhere I go,

they can see where I came from

they can trace the shape of my nose

when they force my hand,

my wrist turns

and

they can see the

nile delta shape of my veins

i do not lie when they ask

but I still hyperventilate

when questioned

about who i am

i do not know how to tell them

that the truth

deceives me

into thinking i can be free

but the truth only tethers me

to someone I do not know

there aren’t many men in plato’s cave,

they are my selves sat side by side

chained to each other

dancing nude in matisse’s mind,

congregating around ideas

and notions

of freedom,

the shadows of freedom haunt me

and so i flee

from one self to the next

participating in a superposition

of the selves

and in that moment,

in the cave-like box,

i lie next to

schrödinger’s cat,

and i echo meows of the non-existent

good boy

what if i rolled over and played dead?

minus the rolling over

and the ‘playing’

that’s an ominous way to start a conversation

he says

he also jokes about

wanting to kill himself

i think we both mean it but neither of us would do it

so we roll over

and we play dead

the wilhelm scream

there is no grand theme,

my skin feels unreal

and my life feels like a daydream i

could’ve easily conjured on a tuesday afternoon,

i sit myself down and look through my own eyes

staring back at me,

pretending

pretentious,

pretending,

that i am being perceived.

if i stare long enough

i could do that thing i did when i was nine

look long enough until you feel the haze

of dissociation

and panic as you realize

how conscious you really are

it’s nothing you can adequately describe,

when you’re as bad a writer as i am,

but it feels for a moment,

that you exist outside of your own mind,

the panic washes over you

when you realize how stuck you are

with this body, this name, and this life

little of what you have chosen, and

a future-load of what you will have to choose

i believe in a god

but this form of existence

is like the sound of tires screeching on a looped playlist,

there’s a nine-year old girl inside my head

and she’s been screaming for years

ever since she realized

she will still be me for a lifetime.

tossing and turning

awake later

than intended

and earlier

than desired

like you,

my thoughts push me

back and forth

until the dough

of my brain folds thin

and all that stems from the within

is flowing through the back of my neck

and down the arch of my back;

my mind is toying with your fiction

and my loins stir at the thought

of you,

flowing through me,

collapsing onto you

like waves pulled by the tide,

the breeze that circles my thighs

and the warm hands that grip me

towards reality;

i’m hooked to the idea

of one night

outside this realm,

can i sell you this piece of fiction,

would you buy my ride?

depression’s colony

i’ve been told it’s rude

to not be welcoming to guests

i was told i should pride myself

in being a host

so when you came along

i let you in

i didn’t hesitate when you

burrowed further in my home

nesting thoughts and ideas

far into the rooms

of my mind

when you slept over the first night

i was excited

almost anxious that i’ve hosted you

for this long

but soon enough

we were like lovers

staying in bed well into the afternoon

and never leaving each other’s sides;

you were like my shadow

following me around the house –

until you drove me out of it entirely

so fast we turned from coexistence

to zionist occupation

you first started by changing the carpets

and dimming the windows

but soon enough

you started changing doors

and then you changed the locks

and left me out

knocking deafeningly loud

that even the neighbors could see me standing

stranded;

homeless

05.08.2019 23:26

purple heart

the slow

motion iteration

and reiteration

of my heart

sinking to the bottom

bubbles float

letting me know

the sailors

keep breathing

but through which vessel

when all are shattered

like the skin that hardens

vessel congested

turned blue

and purple

hardening like

iron

and breaking

like glass

i wish i had a plastic

heart to spare

i wish i could melt it

and meld all the moments

into one

more infinite

than this heartbreak

that keeps breaking me

inside out

and outside in

reverberating and capitalizing on the energy of breaking

to break me more

head screwed on backwards

like when we played with dolls and twisted them out,

contorted,

perception distorted

and irreversible

you can’t screw my heart back on the same way

the plastic head rotates back

to the front

politics of the selves

i’m right here

where i once left and i’ve circled back

i don’t know what is happening inside my mind

i know it’s filling up with thoughts and feelings

but i’ve forgotten how to strain the thoughts apart from each other

and apart from my heart

i feel bundled up in a singular point

like the beginning of time

and space;

a singularity

that outside the realm of time,

encompasses the universe

and an infinite possibility of being

but within the realm of time,

trapped within the ticking clock,

i’m still tied up all together

i cannot yield the power of the stability of being one

to all the different selves within me

all the different feelings

and doubts

and conflicts

there’s simply no space safe enough

for all my selves to be

existential fabric of time

it took so long

but once i destaturated my life

all the voices started talking again

they whispered all the truths

in my ears

alongside the bustling noise of the city

i can hear the traffic

of all the parallel selves

their thought chains all came to a halt

in ludicrous synchrony

it can’t be that all this is real

that this really is me?

my past my future and my present combined

it’s all the same just stretched out by

time

i cannot bear this life of choices;

being alive is complicity enough

to any crime