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Two lives -
one here, one unseen by human eyes.

But I see it, vaguely,
blurred by an everyday life
which doesn't even matter to me.

The heaviness of my existence
pulls me into my bed,
a hole in the shape of me
in the absence of me.
I breathe, and I feel myself
detaching from my body, ever so slightly -
I never quite fit
into this existence.

But I feel it, I see it -
that other life -
that pull, which lifts me off of myself, just so -
and how do you explain
that you are homesick for a place
you cannot even name?

I reach for it, and it's just there -
right there, almost in my grasp.
My chest aches with a yearning
which I cannot explain, no matter
how many nights I stay up,
no matter how many tears I shed -
for a home I almost recognize,
for a life I almost remember.

I can hear the whispers, sometimes -
the singing, and the bells,
beyond all the static and the noise
and the distortion of people who do not matter,
I can hear my name, my real name, being called out.

"Come home."

Home is not here - not tangible -
not my physical shape, not the me forced upon me,
and I glimpse it sometimes, in the glare of the morning sun,
in the shadows thrown by branches by my window,
I see things resembling it -
the soft echo of a water drop, for an instance,
or the grim and dusty corners of forgotten houses
where a dark stain remains
where maybe a ghost once stood sentinel
to guard the little space where I could've slipped in.

I am beckoned by the broken, the forsaken, the cursed.
Every buried bone in forests -
every unseen shadow passing by -
they remember me - they beckon me.

"Come home. Come home."

I curl up in the crawlspace
between here and there,
among the skeletons and the maggots and the cockroaches,
I hide away, like a secret, so that this world may not taint me any further.

And I will grow a little, every day,
I will grow until the day comes 
where I break the seams of reality.

the days all bleed
(into one)

they no longer hurt, they
just are mildly inconvenient and
get in the way 
of my waiting

this room is a box and
there's something slowly crushing it and
i scream on the top of my lungs but am
told that it is inconvenient ; that i should
pipe down and that if i dressed
nicer then it would be more tolerable
to watch me.

i learned to be dead, a long time ago
when the days all bled and it
was so maddeningly painful,
like bright bright red behind my
tired eyelids that feel so heavy but
i can never fall asleep because
i'm so scared, and there's no one there
to hold me

i learned to be dead, in this little
cardboard box room, like
a bird, maybe, or a once cherished little
critter that somebody had pity on, but
then the critter bit and peed cause
it didn't know any better and

there's something slowly crushing
this box, i know it,
they didn't even put holes in so
that i may breathe.

the days run down the drain and
swirl and swirl and twirl and
i dream of skies, and sun, and happiness
in my body, not outside of it,
but i am left so cold every night and
i forgot what i am waiting for

maybe, finally,
i will detach
float up, like smoke or
a ghost, and
i will go and leave behind myself
leave myself behind
float, like smoke or
dandelion puffs,

watching as the cardboard box
flattens and
it all bleeds into
one big, bright, red

spot.

at the table you sit
eating food off of your plate, 
life wrapped in cotton and gauze
like an unhealing wound
that you can't show to the world,
at the table you sit and
you smile as you chew and 
the resentment takes you somewhere
far, far away like
a train that goes way too fast and
you understand that the
feeling is very mutual.
it cuts through bread and butter and
morning chit-chat;
you are raised on
resentment and regrets and
becoming a picture of what-ifs and 
i shouldn't have done that.
an annoyance disguised as 
politness and you 
drink and 
it is palpable
tangible
running down your throat
the feeling of
not being wanted.
but there is food on the table,
you have a roof over your head and you
are a prisoner but the
words fail you and every request
to be loved sounds like ungratefulness,
be content with
the table, and the plate,
and the food, and the drink, and 
let us remind you every day
that your existence has a price
and that there is no way for you
to revoke your existence, 
lest it translate to
ungratefulness and 
life is a blessing, isn't it?

yellow light screaming
screaming quietly, in falling dust
slowly, screaming, falling,
the yellow light is
screaming slowly and
consistently, at night,
i hear it, and the crickets,
both screaming and singing and
it is night, and the dust is
falling, on me, slowly,
the light goes on and off and
the days go by and i am
here with my little bear, that i made
myself, in the yellow light and the
friends i made in the television because
i spoke in riddles too much, and
so the people outside don't want
to talk to me anymore.
the yellow light is old and
i am here every night and
i sit here, in my chair and i
hold my little, misshapen bear and
i hear the screaming still from
when i  was a little child and
i watch television and i
eat mushroom soup and i will also
eat bread and chocolate because
that's what my classmate, who was loved,
ate every day for a snack and
i will also be loved, even if
it's just by my friends inside the
television and i will hold my bear and
sit in the yellow light and
i will eat my mushroom soup and i will
find comfort in the screaming, because
that is also a form of love, and i will find
comfort in being here, alone, and i will
not cry, or be sad, or lonely, and
i have my bear, in this yellow light,
yellow light screaming
my name