Trying to stifle obsession; an inflated balloon swelling stomach with an acidic hope, infecting normal thought process with an alien quality of control – as in: I have none. An always kind of happening. To stop the incessant critical review: noise. Closed and drowning sound. Heartbeats to rhythm and the kind of crescendos that fill your chest with tangible space. When the perfect electrodrop makes you just want to fucking cry. To ease – this discomfort that is my skin. To live in it. To breath to let it breath and feel it crawling over my tongue, a soft tissue. In a bout of possession: speaking in tongues. This is everything: pleasure/pain, hate/love, joy/sorrow, actualization, to rue. An incomprehension of the very thoughts that pass through the confused and twisted coils of my brain. I am not the girl I used to be. I am not the girl I used to be. I am not the girl am not the girl am not the what am not what I am. Am I not. How many people have thought the exact same words that I have thought in history. Felt what wells in the indefinably dark spaces of the chest cavity; between the ribs and expanding with an ache and subtle cracks. Having punished their own mind for disobeying will. Felt finger fire tips at any sudden inhale connection. Consequence as a joke. Consequence as devastation. I have felt the earth shake beneath me from my own force of chaos; seen walls splinter and ceilings fall, minds cracked and death. I have died pheonic and frozen. I have sympathized with the apocalypse and walked abandoned worlds in delusion. I have descended from unknown origins to judge and be judged. Walked warrior through the crowds of lost people. I have been filled with this callous sensitivity – a controlled breaking point with no barrier. I am human or am I what I am. I have lost everything or given it away while holding this vice grip on intangible substance: to feel. I do not want to release the romance I have with this poison: humanity. I cannot treat it any kinder and I cannot purge what has already become a part of a larger tapestry I weave: histories. Weave stories, weave existence, weave truth, weave to and fro from a certain intoxication – to fall face first into pits of memory that serve nobody well. Nostalgia has served its purpose time and again in a prison cell with wet walls. I live damp. Lived. Will live. And taken with black mold, it has grown on me. Perhaps I’ll rise tomorrow. And daylight will decode the mysteries that rough tumble from ear to ear. I will be a little wiser or I will make the same mistakes I’ve made before. I hope to miss. Take what I will. I will love again. I have no choice.