My psychosis unravels to the 5/4 pulsation of life

One  I am a being, imperfectly improper like this fraction of a musical beat, pulsating larger on top, my breasts are too big, my mind thinks too fast– being, larger on top because I stress too much and there’s thoughts raging my mind. I am one of twenty thousand, a mere number in a campus of beings, we are all the one in this improper ratio, exponentially expanding  in class size; congratulations to the class of 20**, the smartest, largest, most achieved— we are improper beings, the way we train our minds to believe we are such flawless, achieved, perfect beings. One, I am one.

Two I am a lover, no boy has ever held my hand or graced his lips upon mine but life makes me blush, the way leaves change color so picturesquely in the fall, or the way people can heave such genuine laughter from the deepest crevices of their stomachs where mine stores nothing but bile– I am a lover for love itself and nothing more, and nothing less, but the absence of love leaves whatever’s left of this one soul kind of hollow, few ever give it to me, and thus I feel obligated to conceal mine from the world, in a façade of poker-faced coolness, but I am a lover of life and love and the beauty of everything around.

Three I am anger, I am fucking rage and irrationality and it’s here that my life loses it’s beats, because for each microcosm of love that sparks inside me, tidal waves of rage consequently follow. I am fury and irrationality, you make me hurl the way you glare at me with disapprovement, condescending tones and sarcastic glares, everyone’s got them, everyone’s got them for me. Everything’s aimed at me, and my defenses are up; I could unleash at you all just as horribly, if this porcelain shell of calamity ever begins to crack.

Four I am prodigy, according to you I’m the reason we’re here in the first place, the reason English was my first language, the reason I’m voting democrat, the reason  I live in 5/4, the reason I took such hard classes, the reason I am talented has become my mantra. I’m a dream. A prodigy you’ve managed to construct of your own aspirations; bricks of talent and well-roundedness, liquid cement of academia; I’m some poorly built castle of prodigality, watch me cascade into the ruins of ******* *************.

Five I am nothing in this house, close the door and preserve the memories of my existence, maintain the pristine locations of where footprints and DNA remnants used to be, where the hairbrush was the last time I’ve used it– preserve it almost as though I was never gone. I’m back though, hollowly returned in my impromptu timing, restoring the heartbeat of this house into irregularity.



And somewhere in this fucked-up clump of lobes and sensors clumped under my scalp, I’d like to selfishly hypothesize that when you told my roommate about the girl you liked, it was that you cared for this dismal hollow thing clicking away at a keyboard, but I’d hate to let you meet these oozing thoughts and beating sentiments, sickly contained little things that make me want to vomit with the ideas of romance whenever you ask me those words, damn rhetorical questions, did you finish that paper, and I just internally fume, you don’t understand the sickening process of elimination I’ve gone through to try and scientifically conclude who she is, but every time my roommate shakes her head no I can’t tell you, whatever ounce of soul is left in this glamorous frame slides up my throat, like maybe one of these days, it’ll just spew down the bathroom stall on a bad Friday night and I’ll be entirely hollow at last– a scientifically operating heap of sensors and veins and guts and transmitters.

Perspectives from concrete walls and tiled floors.

It’s funny because my perspective on everything has been skewed. My identity’s transitive; in philosophy class, they say human identity can be the soul or physicality, but the one right here, caged by flesh concrete and supported by a foundation of cheap peeling tile, faded altogether as my hair just grows shorter and limbs gradually diminish their radii to fulfill some insatiable quota in the eye of some ominously faceless beholder. Look at me now, but I won’t make eye contact– I’m an embarrassment, weren’t you aware? A soulless cluster of regenerating particles; a singular red backpack in a sea of twenty five thousand bookbags, and yet being as generic as the beholder itself is as gratified as my makeshift soul can ever attempt to be.