in which I gain sentience

save room
for doubt, in the silence between
religious guilt and stolen
body heat. I am made of helium.
in my dreams they
                               pop me and
watch me flutter. I wonder if everyone
else’s head is so congested as mine,
hyperactive with inattentive people.
  you are never serious--
he stares at me in a different
set of eyes; there are words
I cannot say,   there are
things I cannot tell you.
                     (twice a week
                  I watch the people I love
        leave me for good.
there are
     spiders in my throat,
                                           I have
                   tunnel vision and
    I sold my dreams
for antidepressants and
           apathy. I’m
      terrified     of        being
                                                  nameless.   why
are you back why are you here
under my skin why does the water
still bite me why can’t I scream when I dream
     of dying?)


              I’m trying to make
         myself content with the idea
      everyday is an understatement
    of the one that came before it.