well i'm breathing through the heartache subtle as a sunset on the silver strand. i may be tempted to treat you like me and me like we and we like i just don't care for the rest of the seedy tests of my mettle or merit or is it my mysticism? is my mystery all dried up because i'm longing for an emptiness of feeling and a fullness of spirit all at the same time? is it possible to see through my own scabby layers to reveal some hidden gemstone known as an untamed or untarnished heart? does the heaviness in my chest hold me captive inside a stolen ribcage, mechanically pumping a charcoal heart? can i heave-ho my own gravitational pull to float awhile on a river of purpose? can i train my focus and demand of me greater presence? can i look me in the eye and tell me to breathe a little while longer and vibrate a little less densely so as to let it all through my half-formed pores? am i up to my own challenge?

Please

Please don't assume your reality upon me. Please don't assume you know me, based solely on messages sent from eyeball to frontal lobe. Your synapses do not see beneath my skin nor through my eyes. Where you see a girl, I see a memory: weak, broken, silenced to the grave. I am a figment of your imagination, yet my skin is as warm as yours, my nerves as responsive to a feather touch or a snaking fingernail, drawing my geometry for the world to see in flaking dead cells