you can find me buried in smoke (or something)

11/29/17 - a poem

is this paranoia part of me or partly me
addicted to reconfiguring myself
so i can’t stop pulling myself apart

i wonder who i am and what makes me
every minute of the day
until an echo chamber takes shape in my mind
churning back and forth the idea of
“what this is”

calling upon every version of myself
chasing each other from door to door
traces of my selves smudge the corner of the frame
and they find each other
to rebuild my self

upon reaching whatever destination they desperately journey to

constantly

 

zzz