The House That Built Me

The strangest sensation is not recognizing your own touch. It is almost as if a stranger has set your house on fire with you mesmerized by the way the wallpaper melts. But I am not a house. I am a forest caressed by rain. I cannot feel the knives of myself because I have carried her much too high. I have dropped her only to be crushed by the wind because I am not a house. I am much too light and I cannot feel the sun. I can only taste the copper of my hopes as I am falling because hope is a sensation all its own. For the life of me I cannot breathe out all these exclamations because my hands are acid and I am mesmerized by my skin sliding from bone.