Blow Fish Bubble Gun Blow.

When I sit alone in my room, and the sun shines on my face, it makes me warm. But sometimes, I’m not happy. Most of the time I am, but sometimes I’m not. But what I am I then? What, when I look at the wall just below the window, and I can’t hear myself breathe or think, and there’s a ghost trying to crack my ribs with his weight, am I? How do I escape it? Thoughts, mostly. Addictions. A trail mix granola bar. You. And why do those things work? Why not language? Literature? Music? Not you, but you? And now it’s becoming a death trap. And the ghost is getting fatter, happier. And the sunlight is getting warmer, and now I’m sweating. I can feel it between my legs. I can feel it under my clothes. Oh, I hate it when I itch. I put on shorts. I’m supposed to walk, do things, help myself, cut my hair that’s getting out of control. I think about myself when I sit there. I think about how scary that fucking ghost was in the hallway when I lived with it for real. And now I’m the hallway, and the ghost isn’t real for once, but rather something I made up. My brother. My mother. Not my father. Never you. Then I begin to hear things. Sizzling, singing, screaming, shushing. Blow fish bubble gun blow. Blow it all away, even though you smell like Star Tours and remind me of my grandmother’s attic. And if you don’t blow, I will blow. And blow. And hopefully I’ll stop sweating.