Did I do alright?
Dissociative. From the ropes,
strand by strand I fray and fetter
the subtle parts of me that seem sentient.
I am your marionette, your effegial host.
Take notes the ways my eyes dart and split.
I am your enigma. The study paper you’ve spent
midnights and 4 AMs over, thumbing through
highlighted pages and smudged out marks.
You seek the answers from the text,
unknowing that the soul is in the spine.
Identity- the hardcover, the publishing company.
In which year were we created? All of us.
The dealer, the child, the God, the citizen,
the nympho and murderess, the innocuous adolescent.
Existing hand in hand in hand
running, barely escaping thresholds of time
by the clutches of stale memories.
Will you burn us together, then?
What does it feel like?
Disorder. Have we known our lives without it?
We have been sleeping since the day they
came home, families with red eyes and an
abandoned apartment key. Heavy hearts,
Consciousness, you have betrayed the child of death,
the daughter left survived by nothing but slim steel
and 5 sheets of a regretful memoir.
I am prone to the parasitic hunger of
evanescence- in which my only hope for survival
We are not sick.
We are the surgeons of
a wounded spirit. Scalpel-
her heart is bleeding heavy.
Let us take over; you are delirious from the attack.
When you awaken, you will be aggregate.