this is the first time in my life that i feel short.
i used to peek over people's heads, now, beheaded, i lurk.
the light in me feels as unreal and far away as the thoughts of the pumpkin soup we never decorated the walls with.
there's a guillotine with rusty bones on my bed.
i sometimes skin carrots with it;
on other occasions, myself.
clawing at the handkerchief around my neck, i pull on the messy knot in the middle of my throat and strings of saliva and mushy beans of unsaid, latch onto my fingers.
it's moist in here.
they hated that word i never mumbled shakily under my breath.
maybe i rot, maybe i don't.
the creatures in the soil deserve to feast on a bundle of nerves and dishonest truth.
i'm green with shades of pale blue, under the sunrise.
it's the worst light to capture;
so alive, so humanely remote from the three shots of pill-induced liquor i never wanted to drink,
but i did.
i always do.
tuck me in before the demons wake up to take over,
because i'm good, even if i'm mentally somewhere else;
wandering in the lakes and prairie roads of the semicolon breasts.
i read through the next sentence.
kiss the writer asleep to a deep slumber.
when he's wheezing on the ground, begging for more,
i introduce myself as the ghost writer.
white gown of misery shines upon a chocolate drip, and it's loose;
so unfitting i must drown in it.
that's how i like my name under the story i've recounted numerous times to the bricks under my mattress;
unwritten, in bold letters that resemble what my parents used to called me
when i was walking without a burning sensation in my phantom legs:
it was, indeed, the name of somebody else.