My life theories are full of flaws
Your favorite thing to do is to touch them
Do you remember
You go at it till there are no fingerprints left
You begin to glance
between me and the dying light bulb
When you leave, it's always late
Me, a little comatose
tumbling through rituals
and the first ten minutes of every John Wayne movie on Netflix
Somebody tells me
You've turned into a broken record
I can't dispute
so I climb into their back pack
Forget it
I kaleidoscope alone on the floor of the infinite waiting room
where a schizophrenic woman describes the events of her body
to a person who isn't me
I tell my therapist I don't know where I am
He tells me You should read Jung
I figure that we probably afford ourselves one nirvana
and move till we're there
I've become a broken record
inevitably
I tie my shoes
many times
There is no exit
There is no entrance
There is only this doorway
that we circle back to