i'm not here

The walls close in on me at times. Right now they are. I moved. I lost weight. I lost my appetite on the way to losing it. I can't eat. It's a control thing, this weight issue. I need control. To do so, I consume the nothing. I'm not here. This is what I tell myself. I'm nothing. I leave no trace. My objects look untouched, absent of my trace. I'm not here. I don't exist. It's my only safe place, where I don't exist. Look in my door. What do you see? A potted plant, a light, and shadows, but not me. You see light. You see structure. You see the insides of a lighted building that looks closed, no vacancy. That's me. I'm in there. I'm not eating. I'm chewing on my skin, chewing on my teeth, chewing on my pride, but I'm not here. I want the world to not exist when I consider myself. The world is hard to disappear, but I am not. I erase myself. I'm not here. I hear noises. They resonate off the walls. My room is underneath the stairwell to the adjacent apartment. The staccato-cadence of people walking down the stairs. A door squeaks and a dull thud resonates through the floor. The place becomes eerily still. I dissipate through the building, leak through the cracks. I am a mist and all is still around me, and I am not 'here.'