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Scout on Existing/Words

 Words are everything. Words line my spine and every inch of my intestines, words cover every spot on my skin, over it, under it, in it. Words define me, define who I will be, and what I’m looking for. They know every secret and insecurity, even though I don’t tell them, don’t approve of their existence, their absorption of my being. The words come from everyone, from directions I didn’t know existed, from people who weren't speaking to me and don’t know my name. The only words that are mine confirm what they have rooted inside me. I sit scrubbing them off with wool wire and drinking bleach to pour them from the inside out, but to no avail. You can’t erase what isn’t really there, can’t kill a ghost or maim a spirit. I grab onto poles in trains and hang onto car doors, hoping I don’t get pushed behind and forgotten, hoping I am real.

The only thing that makes me feel real is words. They give me meaning, give me something to define, something to become, something to look for. I listen for them in silence, search for them in hidden rooms inside my brain, turn them upside down and inside out, looking for more in every letter and sentence. Words teach me that I am the one who must live with myself, that even though I am filled to the brim with other people’s, the only ones that can ground me are my own. They show me that I am hollow, that I search for meaning because I am unable to create it myself, unable to understand that they are mine for the taking. They teach me that I can kill ghosts and maim spirits if I wish, and can discover peace if I stop focusing on ridding myself of influence. I stop hanging onto poles and handles, hoping that I am forgotten, hoping that I am pushed behind, hoping that I am not real. The only thing that needs to exist is words, as long as some of them are my own.

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