my soul comes

without warning

inserting itself

into the most

innocuous of

conversations,

whether whispered

or screamed,

it shows proudly,

unaware of its

consequences

(the shame

comes later).

my soul comes

with jokes

made when

cornered:

like an animal

in a cage

i show my teeth

when i laugh

at my own expense.

my soul comes

with complications,

imperfections,

like boils from an

unknown illness

that continue to erupt

into emotions

that i cannot name

or comprehend.

my soul comes

with questions

that have no answers,

messages

that have no receiver

thoughts

that vanish

before they can be

spoken aloud.

so i speak them,

maybe more

than i should,

because i am not real

unless you hear me

even the parts

that deserve to be buried.

my soul comes

like a house

built

where a crime scene

used to be:

the horror

is still there,

but there’s no tape

to tell you when

to stop walking

inward.

my soul comes

without a warning,

an assault on the senses,

and even if i don’t intend

to cause panic,

i might.

after all,

i scare myself

night after night.

because i can’t

warn myself

away from my soul:

it follows me,

even as i grow.

i lean on the mirror

and it crumbles

under my weight:

it's been

a crutch for far too long,

a fragile justification

for a hatred that based in an evil

far deeper than my flesh.

i can no longer

pick up its pieces

and cradle them in my hands

peering desperately into their edges

looking for an excuse.

i can no longer

mimic its cracks

on my own flesh,

trying to find

what makes it so irreplaceable

so i can achieve its permanence.

the windows long ago cracked

and let in the outside air.

i gave up

on trying to hide from the weather.

the plates

long ago shattered,

i gave up

on trying to keep them empty,

leaving them in their shelves to collect dust.

the crystal cups

shattered,

they were so used to being half-empty

that they couldn't handle being half full.

the chandelier

has shed its jewels

and laid bare

upon the wooden floors:

it is no longer

the center of attention

and it sighs in relief,

being freed from its own expectation.

i broke

the screen on my phone

after i dropped

my dependence on its glow.

but the mirror

is always the last pane of glass to break.

it trapped me in a prison of flesh

that didn't match my brain.

every time i raised my fist to smash it

my own hand blocked it from passing through.

i was my own nemesis

and in order to defeat me

i had to let myself

win.

i can't afford

a private hell.

my hell is

a public bathroom

with no locks

where travelers come and go:

i smear my shit on the walls,

like letters on a computer screen

hoping to deter them

but it only seems to attract more

like flies.

they gawk at

my display,

some even call it art,

as i smear my innards on the walls.

i can't help it;

my innermost thoughts must always be

thrust out

like vomit

after a long night

even when they'd be better left

unwritten.

my mind, like my body,

must shed its waste,

but it is not flushed so easily

down the toilet.

my pipes

are clogged,

choking on filth.

trash

with nowhere to go

simply makes its home

wherever it is convenient:

collecting

in frantic internet posts

that are quickly buried,

filling the gaps in my brain

until it begins to rot,

eating away my memories,

just to sustain its malformed flesh.

i can't afford

a private hell.

mine is a public bathroom,

where everyone comes

to dump their waste,

here and then gone.

yet i remain:

i haven't finished

dumping my load yet.

raise the grasshoppers legs

to your lips

taste the glory

as you shed your form for pleasure,

that amorphous self,

twisting into something almost impossible

to recognize.

something formed of pale flesh

but not quite human,

ascending, flesh rippling

under the soft touch of her ghostly lips,

balancing fears

like rocks upon the skull

distant

for a moment,

sweet relief

found only in images of her

face stretched towards your legs

mere seconds away from

release.

but there are

cracks in this facade.

ants along the grasshopper

feeding

crawling

twisting at the seams

a face within the folds

of your cheeks,

laughing

leering

and from your neck

the roots of rot spread.

you can only have a temporary relief

before the distortion claims you.

golden hair sweeping the space between

your thighs

until it returns

to the rag you had before.

lips return to fingers

and fantasy dies,

reality returns,

a constant battle between

the eternal now

and

the persistence

of memory.

i often wonder

why people say blood blossoms

like it's a flower.

perhaps pain is just

a fleeting cherry blossom

fading in the street.

or a ritual,

repeated annually

'til you turn to dust.

when we pass this pain,

that blossoms from life's cruel tree

will we get a boon?

indeed, for flowers

bear fruit that shines deep red like

apples or cherries

maybe blood blossoms

because it's a beautiful,

rose-tinted ending.

who am i

if left unperceived,

trapped in a mirror,

this false vision of me?

if trapped in a prison

of existential isolation

in which i am the only me

for eons,

unseen by man or beast alike

left only with myself

and this mirror i call my sight.

who am i

if i was never told who to be,

a mold left unpoured

or cracked at the seams.

who am i

when i am allowed to seep

like the man in the mirror

who watches me weep.

is he even me

am i him?

or are we both mere wanderers

in this cruel cautionary hymn?

who am i

if trapped in imperception,

tied up in the desire

to vanish

and stifled by the gag

of apathy?

a silent ghost that walks these halls,

i see only myself reflected in the glass.

yet these eyes do not feel like my own,

because they've only seen reflections.

these hands do not feel like my own,

because they've never touched perfection.

a mouth that's never tasted

a body that's never arched its back

in the early morning

as a caring mother

bids you to rise.

who am i

if left unsocialized?

a feral beast, driven insane by my own

constructions?

a statue built with my own hands?

if i were alone, would i finally be able to

figure out who i am,

after picking apart the seams and stitching

myself back together?

or would i be

the husk

that everyone seems to see,

by losing Them,

would i also

lose Me?

you have

cemetery teeth,

first-rate marble

polished white with tears.

etched into each one

is your identification,

as when a coroner is examining

your remains

searching for dna,

but he finds only stone.

your throat is like a waterfall,

rivers turned hostile

waiting to swallow

the splintered remains of a raft

when they meet

your intestines,

saliva and acid churning

until their task is remitted

and they surge back away from the shore.

your words are gold paint,

adorning the sarcophagus,

borrowed from slave labor

that built your empire,

death is merely the next step

in your horoscope,

prophesizing your rising,

when you reveal

the monster you've always been,

gloating over the loss

of your humanity.

your soul is a project,

meant not to be developed,

but instead to be improved,

shaped into an impossible form of perfection

that, like a horse's mangled hooves

is unable to be reversed,

only expanded

until you find yourself hovering

at the edge of the universe

considering the consequences

of your immortality:

reminiscing upon a lost love,

but you can only glower.

because you shot the dove,

you stepped upon the flower.

and when you look out

into the void beyond

i hope you see a face

smiling back at you

with cemetery teeth

that look just like yours.

if you woke up one day

and found yourself unable to speak,

would your thoughts go away?

unable to write—

would your ideas go away?

there are some things we are not permitted to say.

violence, sedition, terrorism:

threats not taken idly.

yet does silence make these things go away?

does not voicing your plan of murder

prevent you from carrying it out?

obviously not.

your thoughts are still there, your actions still there.

unable to be expressed,

but looming

dark

under the surface, waiting

for the climax

when they are finally released

in an uncontrollable wave

like a spray of bullets.

when someone shoots themselves we

cluck our tongues and say

what a shame

while their families say

"i wish he'd told me."

but he could not.

the words were gone.

yet that did not stop the actions,

merely heightened their horror.

to us, it seems

sudden,

unprompted,

mad.

but we did not see

the years of silence

as each cruel thought

was crushed down

and bottled up,

unable to be spoken aloud,

for fear of being seen as crazy.

but when you are silent,

eventually you will be crazy,

all the things you cannot say

emerging in the worst possible way.

blisters upon the palms of your hand

as you stretch your fingers over the flames,

desperate for warmth

but you no longer feel

the burning.

if you woke up one day,

and found yourself

unable, unwilling

to speak,

frozen in silence

as the world marched on around you,

perhaps you'd merely want

to scream

in the only way

you know how.

after all,

actions

speak louder

than words.

i'm supposed to know where

home is.

and i have the address memorized in my brain,

so maybe

that means i know where i am.

but once i step off

the corner of the sidewalk at the end of the street,

i am sent

into a labyrinth,

a twisting, living maze,

full of street names that ring bells

but don't form melodies.

people think i'm crazy

when i say i don't know where i am.

i memorize the way to work

but can never deviate from the plan.

i can remember street names, but never what's on them,

the map in my brain

is made of disconnected bubbles

that easily pop.

they think i'm not paying attention,

that i'm willfully ignoring the signs.

but they don't feel the panic

when i'm walking to the park

and realize there's only darkness in my mind

where a map should be.

have i seen this house before?

there's no way to tell.

didn't i pass that sign a minute ago

or was that

last week?

senses blur into fog

obscuring everything but my legs

and i have no choice but to walk

until i reach the edge of the neighborhood

before i finally admit defeat

and turn on my phone:

siri, take me home.

she says

it's a two minute walk from here.