the memories left etched into my skin
are the only ones I’m sure to remember

when I’m pissing on that fire
or riding faster than I should
at least I know—this is happening

i am real because I am alive

when the engine cuts out
or I run over that nail
my heart sinks
that’s the last thing I feel

back into the hazy glow of my memory bank
my feelings storing themselves away into secret little spots all over my body
instantly questioning the validity of my experience
seeking out only those experiences that are rare unbelievable to begin with

my whole existence feels unbelievable to me
as if it were happening to someone else

i’m having trouble remembering who I am
what do I care about?
because too often when I think back about my own life
all I hear are other people’s voices

when I write about my experiences I feel pressure to tell the truth—
the whole truth and nothing but the truth
[[so help me!! GOD]]
that’s when I used to stop writing
for fear of accidentally bending the truth

due to the automatic predictions of my brain
i can’t always say what the truth is
because I’ve always lived in an alternate dimension—a separate reality
i may not be the truth bearer,
but I surely know the truth of my own reality