Who are we

April 14, 2015

When I look at these hands, I never feel a flesh of empirical ownership.

“I” refuse to take possession of one body~ a sacred rental

void of “my” right to confine with a label’s dark kiss.

You’ll never wake up.

A “me” seems like some┬áspirit’s castaway for a home. Hopefully it’s a home that fits every corner of a corner-less hologram.


I could be experiencing someone else’s physical realm, a long-invited guest beneath your lip-painted trenches of love, wild brain sights, and scientific chemicals.

Every time I write an essay

Or take notes,

something systematically necessary

I look at hands and remember that I could be a



floating feelings through your lungs and juicy veins, a figment of your suppressed imagination.

A projection of your brain in a vat.

I could be that brain in a vat.

It’s hard to function

When this “me” believes in dreams within dreams and no reality except that of our wildest pigmentations of triangles and primary colors

All built into a body of sensual eye language.

I want to be a me, or an I, to accept these hands and feet, a brain that’s all mine. But I don’t know whose body this is.

I keep asking it to speak to me, to be more comfortable, confident in Leilani being the owner? I hate that word.

I hate the word hate.

Owner is not something I want.

I can’t own doubt.

Was this nurtured by it’s true mother?

Let me sit down and do my homework without these delusions.

I have to convince myself they’re delusions, even though…

Please, my mind needs to just do mundane tasks that will get me a perfect job.

I can’t survive if I don’t take possession of everything.

Sit down. Finish your chapter.

Flip the page with hands. Practice

Claiming them as your own. Read.

Your midterm is in two days.

Why are you a philosophy minor?

I wish I could go on doing normal things without constantly being weary to “work” this body, “own” this body, chin up, chest out, stride, you are beautiful?

How can you assume I’m a you? Do you want me to call you you?

Shit. It’s midnight and “I” need to study. Is this what your body does? It just sits and memorizes and regurgitates info that your professor’s comfort zone needs to hear year after year? I want someone else’s hands.

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