I’m in this place of traveling circuses. I’m in this place of doubt.
I’m in this place of homicides. I’m in this place of silence.
I’m in this mirror that reflects upon nothing, so I found something to bicker about.
The ribcage of the martyr is home to a thousand questions to which you’ll never know the answers to.
I’m in this place where backs break under pressure, and bridges are beacons alit with purging fires.
I’m in this place where my friends are enemies.
I’m in this place where I need to be invisible to fit in.
I’m in this place where I am the Vagabond. I’m in this place where I am the Pariah.
I’m in this place where I can see we are devoid.
I’m in a place where I can see the void.
I’m in this place with hollow eyes casting judgments at me.
The three blind mice, patrons of this brave new world.
I’m in this place where reality seems unreal, and I am a ghost.
I’m a phantom. I’m in this place that is not my home. I’m in this place alone.
I’m in this place where there’s Papa Midnight. I’m in this place with traveling Jones. I’m in this place with Bojangles. I’m in this place with ideas about the Caribbean. I’m in this place where I’m a pirate sailing off into the end. I’m in this place with all of these characters.
I’m in this place alone.
I’m a jitterbug. In this place.
I’m in a place of breathing and shuffling of feet.
I’m in a place of sex. In a space of abstinence.
My fingers like trees. My eyes planets. My head is God.
I’ve lost everything to this place.
In this place I am the alien. And you are the alien.
In this place there’s a battle over territory.
In this place there’s a graveyard and a morgue, but no sanctuary. In this place my fists are pyres. In this place my lungs are hungry. In this place my neck feels stiff, but I can see you for who you are.
In this place my strength lies in my weakness. In this place I’m better than you.
In this place I’m shameless, in this place I’m ravenous.
In this place I’m already home.
