Mat Gilson

I sit in my room alone, as if it’s a prize to be alone. Looking at my phone or not looking at my phone, clawing at the walls, clawing at the skin to get at the under-skin, wringing my hands, ringing in my ears, suctioning my palms to my ears until the suctioning hurts, until I can hear the blood in my hands, until I can see it pounding inside of my eyes. I will be the same, I have always been the same, all fluid. 

There is me and the body of me. There is the voice of my body and of my voracious selfishness. If I feel all alone maybe I am all alone. How in love I am with the idea of the thing, of leaving this place and becoming new. I do not have to wake up every day and be the same, But between me and the body of me, how can I be truly exorcised?