Can you see me?
My brain is sharp
and my head is a cardboard box.
one loud thought—
and my skin tears like paper.
delicate but strong,
I’m a story pressed through walls.
unheard,
forgotten.
rising toward surface,
I'm too light in these waters—
drifting,
drowning.
I breathe,
but it’s not air.
It’s words.
I am flying when I should be swimming,
am I lost,
or just misplaced in the tide?
thinking is destruction,
but so is living.
fire breathes,
and so do I.
where’s the spark I begged to ignite?
burning.
the temple I call my body is searing,
hot. loud.
how do you contain a hazard that feeds on its own heat?
the more I add, the brighter it blazes.
close my eyes—
and I’m higher,
further from the ground
and closer to the burn.
my brain is sharp,
and my head is a cardboard box.
the visions choke me,
but I can’t see.
replace these eyes,
this fragile shell that holds me.
I am all reaction,
trapped in my surroundings.
burning inside my own body,
I wait in this endless lobby
for a door that never opens.
through writing,
through reading.
I let the needles bleed from my mind.
and when I close my eyes,
it sinks in:
my brain will always cut
my shell will always tear.
I’m a glass box,
you can peer inside—
but you’ll never catch the ghost I hide.
(i'm somewhere between here and not here. this came from that place. a glass box, can you see in?)
-do not repost