And pieces just fall out of my head. Pieces of me, remnants of you, nothing I want you to see. I’m sauntering down the street, and suddenly they come screaming out my eye socket. Sure, I saw scraps of a Little Dragon poster–the one I held onto for dear life as you put your head on my shoulder and said ‘this is the sound of life’. I have no idea why it’d be on the Cambodian border, but you’re not here, not even your doppelganger. You’ll never be here. It’s stupid as fuck to look for you, to sprint down the street after that asymmetrical bob of a hairdo. Some call that healing, remembering when you were last understood (even caring when); but for me it’s a crestfallen face, a mouth agape, a quivering and splaying of my hand, exposing myself in public. It’s emotion on my face, and I lost faith that anyone knew or cared how to read it.

It’s amateur hour in my head. I know how to wrap all the motherfuckers, the feelings that walk around in my mind like they own the place. Tightly. I’m not unstable.  I don’t have random emotions. I should. In anticipation of the watchful eyes of anyone [everyone] that might swish the sounds ‘Whacko is whipping his tear ducts again, here come the waterworks’ I only wear one of three faces–all shades of placid.

So I got edges that scratch
And sometimes I don’t got a filter
But I’m so tired of eating
All of my misspoken words
I know my disposition gets confusing
My disproportionate reactions fuse with my eager state

I lost the ability to blurt out the blood of my brain. Not right when you left, no one has that much power. But slowly, each time ‘What the fuck?’ scrawled across their faces. They feel like ghost hearts, I am a ghost heart not erupting from the eager state emoting through my eyes. We always had a racist/sexist/homophobic filter on our mouths, we felt our words as they tracked across our tongue. There were no misspeaks, no mistaking fury for fear, knowing passion wasn’t anger. I remembered you told me, you knew like an ever hanging hue in your heart that I was one of the kindest people you’d ever met– shocking, coming from you you fucking saintly Samaritan. I have to halt the haphazard I show it.

I don’t want to live in a world where thoughts sneak out of the prison I’ve put them in. Simple goddamn thoughts. It was worth it to rip a whole in my head, to run towards the hair that graced my shoulder with needle and thread in hand patching my own scalp. It was worth it to chase a specter of you, a specter of a time when my words weren’t acid. It’s scraps of a Little Dragon poster, it’s scraps of myself again.

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