Lost

She’s got this magnetic indifference to my existence.
And maybe I would’ve picked up on it sooner
if I wasn’t so consumed with out-of-body experiences,
and the finer points of astral projection
or the duality of reflective surfaces
that create panes of being that fold
inwardly on themselves.

The ghosts pulled my rib cage apart,
just to get a better look,
to see what I was made of,
to see if I’m worth the trouble.

I tumbled through the decades,
casting illusory shapes and shadows of specters
on the brittle leaves of my family tree.
A repression of madness couldn’t be found.
I must be a unique case.

I embraced the void,
entwined in the nothingness,
attempting to perceive what she sees,
analyzing the tides of self-deception.

And in the process of losing the unity of my being
to the fabricated psychologically occult,
I came to one conclusion:
given the choice, I wouldn’t associate with myself either.