i have a story like everyone

for as long as it will take,

i willl lock myself in rooms
and try to figure out
what part of me feels
most like me–
at the moment,
at the second,
and then retract everything
in the next breath…
because i am not comfortable.

i am not ever
comfortable.

the quiet overtakes,
and i allow it.
i allow the drifting to
infiltrate all corners;
dark ones that haven’t
seen light, that haven’t
felt air.

there is something burlesque
about the lineage of my thoughts.
they start aligned and present,
and end in a spacial malformation.
they create the largest duration
and fit into the smallest crevice.

you could fix the depths
of me inside a granule of salt–
but that brine could
taint everything you
take to your lips.

my body is breaking.
falling apart.
crumbling like an
archaic statue that
someone long ago wrote
about and then at once,
forgot.

rooms; all seem a way out.
doors; only an enclosure.
windows; an escape and
a life sentence.

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