Preface

This is not me, placing myself on my bedroom floor for a physical displacement to line up with my mental one.
 From the yellow light, I’ve attracted insects into my room. I have only two thoughts, to destroy them or to love them anyway because they do not belong here. 
The ceiling is their bottom of the sea, this floor mine. That is their planet, I am their face in the sky, their god. The way they hover, searching for textured spots to finally be complacent in. Or maybe kissing their own shadow, tapping the dry wall, searching, tapping, and tapping once more. 
This still is not me, I wish I could say I feel restored. I wish I could say that for you.

I fear who I am, who I think I am is someone everyone else has made up for me. 
Is this how god feels? Is this how he felt? When everyone has thrown his potential energy at him for their whole lifetime? 
Signed- ‘god’ 
This is still not me.
I was delivered to a mother on February 14th 1989 And each year I get older, and she gets older. My resentment is softened, by her harsh wrinkles and chest pains. 
From my vacancy light, I have attracted insects into my room. 
I wanted to love them anyway, for being where they didn’t have to be, but wanted. 
I had an understanding of lust, I had taught myself what it meant to be the brunt of the damage, of a choking, of a slap. It didn’t make the hold sweeter, it didn’t make the kiss after more tender. I got stuck, in the half with the begging and taunting. The rest felt false, felt forced. 
Please, this is still not me. 
And if it was would that be quite alright? 
Without thinking twice, the nerve to look into the mirror makes me vain. The fact they exist on my walls, the fact they exist at all, screams in each ear constantly ‘it always matters’. 
Who am I delivered to now?
I owe you, my debt is marrying you in death. 
The lines in our palms don’t match, we gain impressions through our lifetime that contrast from others. The way you held your apple was different than mine, the way you chewed the skin around your finger nails, the way you twirled the hair behind my ear. 
That was not me, I was not as clean as you made me feel. 
From down here, I deserve this. This abnormal scent of the ground, my bones hard and pinched against the linoleum flooring. 
This ceiling is the bottom of the sea, to me. The sky, yours. 
The chemicals rushed my blood, leaving no molecule intact, no drop of AB positive unclean. I’d imagine you are somewhere, looking over me and shaking your head. Or laying on your hard ground, wherever you are now- mimicking my hands tracing your body on the ceiling. I know you by heart, I whispered. 
I heard nothing in return. 
I didn’t hear the metal of the car being peeled away from you. 
I heard no sirens, saw no body mutilated in the wreckage. 
Only my conscience delivered back to me. 
It’s too soon to know what it is to mean you are gone, I didn’t know, I don’t know- the parts of you that will stay with me and the parts of you that will be washed down the sink or clouded by self deprivation. 
Without you, this is not me. 
Picking the lint obsessively off my clothes will not bring you back, putting on extra makeup- spending extra time doesn’t fucking matter anymore. 
If it wasn’t for me, it was for you. 
Neither exist any longer. 
I need your hands to turn off these lights attracting these things, these unimaginable things! 
I need them to bounce my head against my mattress urging me to wake up, it’s Christmas morning! 
I need them, as selfish and pretentious as I need to need.

In Mexico of 08 you told me to ‘walk it off’ 
It hurts, it stings, I don’t want it to anymore.
‘Well, walk it off!’
I can’t tell if you are the jelly fish wrapped around my ankle, or the piss soothing it.

I know, it hurts, it stings and I don’t want it to anymore.
Well, walk it off. 
How far do I have to go Ben? 
To walk this one off? 
I cup my hands over my ears and pretend I don’t know the sound of the ocean is merely the blood flowing through them. 
I can’t feel you anymore, I can only feel the shadows of you, the dark alleys, the backs of my fucking eyelids. Places I can pretend you are, but know you are not.
 This is not me.