I push and ache
always trying to feel
through this sack of flesh
meeting between being and living
I finger the in between
looking for an opening
in what feels like cloth
covering and separating
you from me

My feelings are like my words
long-winded diatribes
nuanced shades of technical thought
in how reactions respond
to the myriad of situations
I’ve classified and categorized
sporadic in an organic way
to call me creative
repetitive and methodical enough
to call me structured
interspersed throughout
to act like emotions
an elaborate mimicry of meanings

I learned from the psychos
who surrounded me
along the way
how to function
minimally
now I recognize
my reflections in their shadows
the memories chilled on
ice cold impaled hopes
dead on overdoses of reality
then I learned to open
and let what I love
destroy me

and yet, here I still am
a single pointed blade
slicing away the fat
getting down to the marrow
of digging in.