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I never feel like myself when I'm sober
frozen in the present
imprisoned in some simulacra of reality
like a bug in amber
my blood feels stagnant
rotting

I itch

I want to smear myself over reality
melt my ghost over the hot ashes of a supernova

there is Too Much inside a person
for any moment, for any singular body to contain
we are stuffed with pieces
perpetually reshuffling the little bits of universe
that seek harbour in our chemistry

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I think about what will be left of me
when I die
the shape of my ghost
packed inside closets
a collection of Things

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

sometimes it feels as through
a body is just
a crossroad
a bridge through time
connecting moments

but I know what waits
on the other side

a spirit cannot cross running water

torching the flesh
I spill endlessly
and we meet at the ocean