I've got my head underwater
and my torso
mid-air,
knee-deep in a world
where minutes make no sense
and Physics
cannot discern the structure of atoms;
cannot determine the speed of light;
cannot expound the forces of magnetism;
where gravity does not pull you down
but instead, lets you     o      e
                                             h    v    
                                                            r.
                                                 

In a world where everything defies
all earthly conventions,
where nothing is a natural cause
and everything is caused by you.
In a world where you are--
you are nature.


I've got my head underwater
and my torso
mid-air
in a world where people
cannot speak.
Where words cannot exist
because being scolded
for throwing up too many times,
for falling in love with too many guys,
for the scars on your colored skin,
because here,
being scolded for that is fair
being scolded for that is allowed
being scolded for all of that is
not
a sin.

I am buried,
underwater,
I can breathe,
underwater.
I'm in a world
of no spatial dimensions.
Where Earth does not break down to
longitude, latitude, and altitude.
Where Earth breaks down to nothing,
independent of a guilt-ridden conscience
and unceasing helplessness.
Where you and the Universe exist
alone.
Where I and the Universe exist
alone
at the same time.

I am underwater,
breathing,
alone.
In a world where
people
do not exist.

I am underwater,
where I can safely
love,
live
without being scolded.

Theater and Leaving People Behind

I've never been the type to stick around for too long. I'm constantly leaving places; 

I leave places behind and I leave the people in these places behind. 

Heck! I even leave the person I am in these places behind. I just don't stick 

around because when I stick around too long I start adapting too much to the people around that - and I kid you not - we start looking, speaking, walking, feeling, everything alike. 

A fucking mess.  

It's like every ounce of your being is gradually vaporizing to mingle with their being until you just stop being altogether and start transforming into the most irritating, disappointing, absolutely blandest version of yourself or them, you can't even figure out who or what you're becoming!

A fucking mess. 

So, I just leave. 

and leave.

and 

leave. 

I wasn't born with the desire to let go of people because I've slipped out of my mother's womb with the hostile urge to live alone. On the contrary, I hate being by myself. I just do it, deliberately, out of spite. 

I've been left before. 

A number of times too! So, now it's my turn to leave. 

In theater, I've been a bitch; an old woman; a doctor; an old woman again; in love; hated. I was called Rebecca; Alma; Gwendolyn; Emma; Betty. I was everyone and everything because I can, because I'm allowed to. I spent weeks and weeks and weeks learning lines and having these lines spend nights tucked beneath my tongue that I would walk around and these words, these words that have absolutely nothing to do with me, would walk around with me and become a part of me, and me them. I would convince myself that I was, in fact, hopelessly and helplessly in love with John and Bore and Ernest. I prepped myself for getting hanged every night for six nights in a row. I lived as these people, with these people, to bring life to these people for a day, three, eight, sixty. 

And then I would leave.

It would all be over and I would leave Alma and John to never make love.

I would let go of Rebecca as she dies.

I would take off Emma's lab coat.

And they would all cease to exist.

And I would cease to hold on to them.

Or to anyone else for that matter.