Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ mental age is half a billion ]

I have always thought too much. When I was a kid, I would drive myself crazy running through my head, the question of being ever enough for a great number of things always coming at the top of the cake. I hate cakes, but I abhor the idea of not being able to understand myself even more.

Most of the time, I imagine myself drowning in words and gestures and insecurities and love and doubt and anger and emptiness; sands of my past, present, and future sifting on my hands, the coarse texture alerting me that I am alive and breathing but not really living.

One of these days, I will be lost in the nooks and crannies of my brain, and I will float, float, float up into the air and fade into a speck of dust that contains my unshed tears of better realities. I will never be found, blissfully transparent and graceful, my limbs like jelly and my neck cut open with all the words I tried to say but did not really say in fear of hurting the world. And so, I write poetries to lessen the sting of a punishment so divine the heavens ache at its core.

Loops and loops of swirly lines on a blank page of adulthood, puberty at the front and childhood at the back, a cross of in-betweens that my feet could not run, a distance so vast I stretch my body to accommodate the string of melancholy in my spine. I am art. I am nothing. I am everything else.

Throw a bone to the beast that lurks in my breast; it likes to come out and play in a frequency of worry and anxiety. I gnaw at my fingernails, hoping for the cure of a thousand lifetimes to turn me inside and out. Fires and ashes, reborn, always being reborn, but fades away into a series of screams that my heart could no longer hold.

Let me sink to my death, a painful yet celestial happenstance in my 20 years of living. I need to talk to you.