It is there
As rolling thunder in the background
my soul
like some kind of unraveling cyclone
bull-in-china-shop reckless
where my skin feels too tight
itchy, as the insect that skitters across your back in your
sleep
only to awaken and not rest again
I feel it, in the places where the ruthlessness of the abuse
Is a scar that never diminishes, where I have become marred
from the experience
But there’s no way to know that until I open my mouth.
It is the contamination, that pours through me, savage and
hateful.
impregnated with import, something irreversible stays
as pitch that stains mentality
I listen to them drone on
where they mistake my pause for awe
graphic carnal fantasies unfold in my mind
beyond the surface tension that binds me
there is a compulsion that seeks to infiltrate
conniving.
there is some aspect of self that is scratching at the
wallpaper
Hacking at the database , vandalizing the text
corrupting the moment in the flaw
as if I am listening a bit too much
wondering if I am hearing things that are not there
sensing the unfairness of time as a space between many
worlds
it has a texture that shapes us,
unique unto ourselves.
In a kind of expansive isolation that never tires
There is a loneliness that nothing can satiate
a rage that never subsides.
As if I am a bystander to the tumultuous waves eroding the
origins of my identity.
I think upon the places that made me like this.
As a series of unforgivable vignettes that cannot be
unlived.
as jealousy for a thing that cannot be obtained, only
lost.
