My life is chaos.

Words, thoughts, feelings, moments — things lost in a mere blink of any eye.

Things that have been so impossibly difficult to attain.

Things that are so passionately and rapidly consumed and forgotten and unremembered and –

I fear that all that I am is all that has already been.

I fear that my life is not much else than a overplayed sequence of mediocrity.

I fear that my life does not mean much more than another tombstone waiting to be built.

My time must mean something.

If all else fails,

and

my perfectly positioned corpse

lays

– appropriately rotten –

under recently refurbished rental units,

my time must mean something.

I want my spirit to recall

the words that continue to haunt me,

in my living death:

I am.

I am.

I’m not.

I am the the accumulation of all of my father’s faults and my mother’s misgivings.

I am every sad song I’ve ever heard, and every single love story I’ve ever read.

I am all the tears my sisters have cried for me,

and every thought I have thought that others thought of me.

I am my grandmother’s nose and my teacher’s red written comments.

I am every failure,

every heart ache,

every single word uttered

by those,

who have so thoughtlessly created me.

I am the pause between my thoughts, and the words whispered in darkness.

I not anything that the world has not yet seen.

And that is okay.

It’s not who we are, but what we make of it, that makes us different.