Feeling bones and flesh congeal together out of alcohol markers and fineliner ink and eraser shavings. Knowing the blood runs through your veins but at the same time it itches, because while it splatters all the same you know somewhere on the smallest scale it’s hewn of red ochre and graphite. Flesh doesn’t cut but tears like cheap notebook paper. A voice that’s born of a thousand replayed tracks until they’ve melded together into something that sounds like everyone and noone. Eyes and hair and clothes all woven of the same thing and every color all at once and none of them at all, because you shouldn’t be here and thus the world can’t decide anything about you. A personality that flashes and flares and molds and branches in every direction and you can’t hold it for more than a second before it’s nothing but shreds to be woven back together like a forever-fraying rope.

There is someone, out there, that made me.

There are people, out there, still making me.

And that is why I bend, and twist, and the colors shift, and have two voices or ten or twenty or wings or claws that linger only like a stuttering breeze.

There is something out there that wishes to unmake me.

Because yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there,even though he was at first.

I stole his wallet as he passed and bought myself a snack.

The next morning I woke and it melted through my fingers and into dust. I remembered his name. I searched for it online. There was nothing, and he was no-one.

It took him and it made him go away.

I wish I could say I was jealous.

I don’t like being here.

But that thing that would let me go away I think might be the worst thing of all.

HOME. Where is it?