I’m taking apart my lungs, or
sucking in oxygen that burns more than it breathes.
Creating several selves-
on different days,
hoping to create something which lacks proper existence
in a place where everything made is eventually bought
or everything thought of is eventually stolen by investors.
Investors in time and in energy, in “land” and in reproductions,
where ghosts aren’t figments of fractured images in your mind,
instead they walk halls with you,
they speak of children and of furthered zombified days, daze,
where pieces of selves crawl from the pores in your skin to the cruxes of your conversation,
become saviours or blows to the vitality of your existence amongst others,
where you wonder what pieces are acceptable or taboo.