I keep thinking there is dirt underneath my fingernails

(I wrote this on acid)

I keep thinking there is dirt underneath my finger nails because I am loved because there is a sea of genuine trickiness and my eyes burn. My eyes burn so bad. I keep thinking about the color yellow and orange and the fact that everyone kind of looks like me somehow. Everyone looks the same but they all look like me. And I look like them.

And I keep thinking about my friends and how everything I think about my body reflects off of what I do for them and what they do for me. I think of how August gives me a jacket. I think of how I wear the jacket. How the truth is that I am a boy who is everyone's girl. Most of the time when I dance or move my body in a way that isn't walking I get freaked out by it. I like to think my body has a natural tendency to fuse out the girlish thoughts in my head because in my head I think I want to be an art fag and listen to the talking heads and trace stars on my own back. I think of how James tells me things are not my problem. Like the way I cuff my jeans, or have my shoelaces put through different holes. Other stuff like putting my own hands in my hair or avoiding looking at myself in the mirror when I brush my teeth because it just became too real. It is never truly my problem. Sometimes it feels like the things I do are building my bones slowly back to be a different person who looks like the people I get wrinkles on my forehead and cheeks from because I laugh so hard or stress out or cry too much or throw up in the parking lot. My bones replaced by much sturdier more beautiful bones because I know them. Today I saw a girl breastfeeding on Twitter on my phone and it wasn't my problem and it still isn't my problem. Today I saw 3 girls walking outside of the student union and I kept thinking about how I am all three of them. I keep thinking about Sophia and August being those girls too. I'm thinking about burning a field of already planted, beautiful, fully harvested crops. Corn and peanuts. Tobacco too. I think of the man I wrote about with the tobacco farm and how I loved him but he's dead and I did that. It would be a lot easier to bring him back but there's a narrative and a world that doesn't spin backwards. I know that.

I keep thinking about how I lost my wallet.

I keep thinking about playing my voice back and whether or not I actually believe the words I speak. I keep thinking about other voices and whether or not I am ready to hear them. Not the words that they speak but if there is a barrier of silence and what I think is worth thinking through enough to allow the voices into my ears and head. They aren't the same.

I keep thinking about the smell of cigarettes and a clicking noise. A clicking noise. I'm thinking about 808 drums. I'm thinking about how little my pinky finger is. How my pants came off. How I froze.

I keep thinking about all the things I want to say and how I am so excited to tell them to you tomorrow and I love you.