In  the  sense  that  you’re  more  of  a  limb  than  a  hobby,  I’m  probably  even  more  insane  than  previously  theorized: amputate  you  from  my  body,  and  you’ll  still  be  there,  buzzing  around  

air  quotes  flickering  its  wings  the  way  ears  blink  when  you  swallow, 

my mind’s autocorrect exhausted by your earworms, except they aren’t songs 

 

The thing they don’t get about escapism

                                          is that you’ll eventually have to escape from the stories that leave you

                                          but they cling, you mulch it, and carry it with you. 

it’s every only child’s pathology to orderly dissociate till dinner time

or maybe that was just me: I’ve had stories in my head ever since I could remember, dreamily intrusive, and much more interesting

I cared more about what happened to characters borrowed and mine  

than whatever was going on in the present

          These days they’re calling it “hyperfixation”, which I prefer

because none of these places are actually fun, they’re simply more imaginative

than wherever I(’m reluctant to) belong. 

 

escape to the real world, compartmentalize 

my brain hasn’t got any pockets, though

I try not to think of you often, I try to act like an ingrate

I keep you with the dolls and stuffed animals from childhood

all things that I’d save from the fire when the alarm would ring at the building, 

which happened at least twice

now locked in the cupboard under the stairs.