I woke up under the sun/in my throat/in a prison cell/on someone else’s bed.
The mirror said hello/goodbye/nothing/my name in cursive.
I brushed my teeth/stared at my reflection/spoke to the sink/bled a little.

She was waiting in my bed/on my roof/in my mailbox/not at all.
She said: I missed you/I made you/I warned you/I’m not real.
I said: Me too/I know/I’m sorry/Who am I?

I put on my coat/face-mask/body/new name.
Went outside/stayed inside/went sideways.
The street looked like a dream/a crime scene/a question mark/my old bedroom.

Someone grabbed my wrist/my leg/my shadow/nothing.
They asked: “Did you mean it?”
And I said: Yes/No/What did I say?/Who’s asking?

When I sat at my laptop one day, I heard my windows flip out. They weren’t happy with their salary.
  “Ours is too high! Give us less!”
  “Yeah, you’re spoiling us!”

I went on with my everyday tasks, however, I told myself:
  “Wait, why would I give them a salary, even?”

So I stopped paying them for at least 6 hours.

The next day, they were cloudy.

I said:
  “Where’s the sunlight?”

They responded:
  “Our salary is too low! Give more!”

I was, to be fair, extremely confused, yet it made sense. I opened a window halfway, and they groaned. I sprayed them with glass cleaner, and they wept.

I said:
  “Why do you always complain?”

The windows finally opened themselves, slowly, and said something that opened my eyes:
  “Because labor with no meaning is torture.”

Lazy *******.

You did this to yourself
Acting so tough
Crash the sky, it’s called corrosion
“Spread my wings and cut them off!”

Where is your gown?
What comes up will come down

So tall
Yet so fragile
So empty inside
And then it all shattered…

Where is your gown?
What comes up will come down

It was you
Why did you do it
For me

I don’t want to die for you to be left a widow.
  Not you.
  Not the fire in my room’s curtains,
  Not the scream in the sink,
  Not the glue that binds my lungs shut.

You, who wears my pulse like cologne.
You, who adores migraines.
You, who talks in-between my unfinished sentences.

The fever I despise yet love.
The sea I drink until I drown.
The taste of unfinished violence.
The vow carved into my spine.
The addiction I romanticize.
The hunger that signs my name when I can’t.
The dumb idea that razors its way through my thoughts.

  My wildness I swore I could hold,
  I’d rather die every day of my life,
  If it means I will die with you.

It’s a sign of weakness, they said, to show your face: “too pale, too tired, too human.”

My mind is racing, looping like a broken wheel… Do they hate me?

Every glance feels like a weapon; every word, a cold dissection. I try to walk through the crowd unseen, but I am simply raw meat on a butcher’s hook, spinning slowly under the fluorescent lights.

And then I see her. She laughs, and I think it’s a kindness, but she looks away too quickly. My fists tighten; the world sharpens into jagged edges. Pull her hair, I think, rip the scalp off, strip the mask, and see if what’s underneath is as hollow as what I feel.

But the moment passes, like all moments do. My pulse somehow slows, the crowd swallows me whole again. I have no mouth. I want to scream. I can’t. I want to decide something, anything, but the choices aren’t mine to make.

Don’t you see?
Nothing is decided by us, in this modern world.
It’s a strong bond to appearances.

I took note of your scathing criticism.
It’s the best joke of the century.
Hell, even of the millennium!

  “You should’ve learned how to change.”

Change? CHANGE?!
I changed so hard I broke the mirror
And swallowed the shards for breakfast!
  (The taste is particularly exquisite)
  (Taste? Heck, you can call it a rebranding!)
  (With a side of narcissism and a pinch of performance — natural for an artist!)
    (Believe me — it digests easier)
    (And leaves less of an aftertaste)

I became:
  Gene Kingstone,
  Ásgeir Geirmundsson,
  Frodo Clayhanger,
  Rakin Badr Shamoon,
  Ouya Ishikawa,
  René Bérubé,
  Sargent Fresne,
  Fabien Giroux.

Eight names, a thousand apologies.
Eight lives, and not a single one wasted.

Look at the barrel you set aflame!
And I’m the neologism you feared to create.

I only said it once
At lunch,

You didn’t ask,
But my mouth was tired of swallowing
Things with your name in them.

“It wasn’t just a thought,” I said.
“It happened.”
And I think I smiled,
Not exactly out of joy,
But because your silence felt heavy.

You looked at me like a painting hung upside-down, sideways.
I almost asked if you still liked the wine I have chosen out for you.
But you already “went to the restroom”

So I rinsed the glass
And called it a perfect day