The Drift

Break me,
down into my components;
the pieces of my lack of personhood.
Please, 
objectify me;

I do not feel like a thing anymore.

Comment upon my body;

The way I forget it belongs to me.

Personify me, anthropomorphize me,
drag what remains of who I was out of the catacombs of the empty shell I've become.

This sullied skin,
this flesh,
is a grave,
I have broken my knuckles beating my hands into the lid of this coffin.

"I am in here"

I tell only myself, 
because I don't know if I am lying,
because I can no longer make those kinds of sounds,
the words strangled by the superficial 'I am fine thank you's that cut their way up from the pit in my stomach and bloom knotweed out of the dirt in my mouth.

Something is rotten here,
the state of me,
I hurt at the nothing I feel about my apathy.

"Please,
I am in here"

and I don't know how, because I ran out of air so long ago;
I am gasping - choking - on poison,
my body feels sick,

"Please,
I am dying in here"

- one of the few things I know now.
as I say it like a catchesim, thrashing in my crypt
My skeleton's death roll, rattling inside of me,
desperate to be free of this;
the drift.


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