the space above my ears.

Et tu, Brute

hey guys, the first part of this poem is translated to Latin which does not work whatsoever with google translate so you can find the translation in the header image :)

"Salve," puella salutat. Est pulchra et brevis similis nox.
"Quid caelum est? Doceo tē omnia, doceo tē lanam trahere, doceo tē manī. Manēs miserabilīs. Tabellariī necant equum.
Adducet reducet. Cur? quod sollicitus est quam sollicitus facet, et tamen, ad Terra Gratia erimus.

I, the narcissist, feel things more poetically than the usual neanderthal.
This is not meant to portray me as superior to the aforementioned group, because I'm not, I'm like everybody else in any other sense,
But I am very good at hurting.
So much as an unreturned tap of one foot against another underneath the tabletop could be so beautifully written by this mouth of mine, flowery euphemisms blossoming before your eyes so beautifully that they feel familiar even though you've never heard them before.
But now all my sense of stability is gone.
Now I'm one foot out the door of today and it's barely four in the morning.
I have to expel the ink that gathers at the base of my skull, marinating my brain, keeping my eyes wide open.
Otherwise I end up here, crawling out of the shower onto the damp bathmat.
I remember climbing inside, feeling the steam rope me in, but I don't remember how I ended up on the floor.
It's several hours later now, i'm gazing into the steamy mirror, droplets of condensation blooming and trickling down the glass, framing my blurry face. I'd woken up under a stream of cold, a washcloth over my face like i was trying to water board myself in whatever dimension i was in.
Am I really this self-destructive?
Am I unhealthy to love, like a maladaptive tendency?
I think I know so much that I can't inventory it all, that I'm breaking trying to find storage for all of this knowledge of a place it is pushing me to leave.
The all-consuming terror is an addictive substance. Abuse of it is characterized by constant glances to the back corner of the room, each time somewhat expecting to be watched.
A haunting in the margins.
You can reach up and grasp the doorknob, push and pull, back and forth, so on. 
You can lean in, smell the air on the other side, get a sample. 
Be careful when you reach through to feel the chill, you may find your own finger prodding you in the back and sending you falling over the threshold you lack the will to cross.
And the ones who cling too the ceiling fan are the first losers, for they are not worth saving.
Rescuing them would be like forcing a dead man up to his feet, making him walk through a place that has taken every penny-worth of hope from his pockets, make him pull his weight like everyone else.
But bodybags don't carry themselves and this gun-metal guesswork, this belief grown fresh in the silence, is much too broad a concept for this population.
When the rot tears him apart and you're standing solemnly, ankle-deep in the rust-colored stream, a small, flat slab of flint in the palm of your hand, you will begin to decay as well.
You grabbed something that was hardly a man by the scruff of his dirty blue neck and threw him back down, spit flying from your furious mouth as you blamed a dead thing for your misfortunes.
I have no sympathy for things like you.
And you have no sympathy for things like me, a ceiling-dweller.