I’ve gotten to this point in my life that after so many times of allowing the devil’s morphine into my temple, lifting my eyes to the ceiling with a smirk, and collapsing, back splatting on the suddenly soda pop bubble flying mattress it seems, I am numb.

From embarking on daily journeys to the dark, shallow, insect-infested, 6-feet-under destined area of the slums, there are drums in my heart. It beats to the sound of the background, to the beat of their setaes, their prickly hairs and lost eyes, their noises as sharp as a cavern stalactites without them knowing.

The ache of the awareness of the earthquake my hands cause as they speak, as their camera lenses suspect me, I froze. They know.

As I walk I stumble to let them know my confidence is in trouble, their compound eyes don’t miss a thing. It’s hard to keep myself in line when my inside feel like a crumbling sandcastle, my hair feels like a jungle of miscommunication, and my clothes barely hold on to the avalanche that is my soul, expose. Take captured moments of me in my worst moments, when I’m around people I’m not comfortable with, when I’m forced up front by syllables and hyphens, I know. Here I go.

Now all I have is the time I am in, the pasta left as evidence last night happened, I don’t remember, why don’t I remember, remember what happened in December,

It was worth it. The times the air would carry me as I leaped off of the boat carrying me back home and I’d smile, after that long while I got to go inside, let go of the mask I held so tight, let the haze decide, I am not me. I am free.

.