Alien

 It tastes like death.  I’m banging on the doors but there’s no way out.  My skin is crawling, itching, and the worst part is I know exactly why, and I can’t do anything about it. 

                We are all sitting on the floor, tumbling downwards.  I am crawling towards a black hole, waiting for it to eat me up.  I have always been disconnected with the world around me, partially because I’m a ghost.  Yes, you heard me right.  I’m a ghost.  Eh, I could be an alien who has no substantive form, living in a host body.  Something like that.  So call me alien ghost boy.  Sounds about right.

                Except that my host body has these really ugly, protruding b***s.  There are other things that are wrong about it, like a sort of black hole melting around me, screaming THIS ISN’T ME, but the ugly tits are the worst part.  I don’t know how I ended up in this host body.  I bet there are other aliens, I wonder if those in the right host body feel the same way.  The otherness of being an alien, with no substantive form…

                …there is this strong, pulsing feeling in me that this body is not real.  That my spirit is not real, that it is real but it’s sleeping somewhere else, cold and waiting.  Waiting for what?  I don’t know.  But the worst thing in the world would be to die before becoming myself.

Reviews

[T.W. Early]

very different and original. I loved the point of view. Nice poem.