trashcans, hairballs, fantasy world.

i'm the kind of person who lives in the in-betweens,
the space between the refrigerator and wall,
under the couch, in the pauses between words.
i hear hoofbeats and think alligators,
i'm never the simplest explanation,
occam's razor was sharpened on my bones.
i'm the cruelest person you'll ever know,
and i'll scream at you my rage
(all of that that swirls inside me, whirlwinds, jealousy)
but you'll never hear because
you're yelling what at me over the music
that i played too loud or the thunderous harsh noise of morning light
that is too bright streaming through the window.
i can't rhyme, i can't form my words and smash them into molds,
i can't be like everyone else and i don't know my stuff
i just make it up and cut it with a dull knife
like pie dough that's too cold
from the icebox that doesn't work all the time.
and my sneezes are like gunshots, fast, quick, loud
(just like you don't snicker) and
my fingers like god's hand picking out adam and eve
and all things that walk and crawl and fly.
i'm the person you don't want to meet cause i'll look at you
and see right through you, in fact you're not even there,
all i see is brick and glass
(and it's so much better to be a window than a door)
and when i lie on the grass and see the sky,
i can't resolve it,
it's just dots like impressionism
way up close where things are just blurs.
i don't breathe sometimes when i'm watching people walk away
because i forget and my lips and fingers turn blue
like the ocean i can't see and i don't like making similes
because it sounds like a cop-out and
my eyes are too dry but i hate crying all the time.