I keep tripping as I walk in your shoes

I keep tripping as I walk in your shoes. I thought it obvious that I had an urgent need to nudge the stars into columns and rows – even before all this madness. But I suppose you have always believed you know me better than I do. I must tell you that a fading naked apparition set adrift a weeping kangaroo on a plank of wood towards a uniformed man in a cage. They all said he had a digital camera in one hand and a machine gun in the other. The man has since been discharged, though feign death he did.

I put a pillow over my face for an hour and a half but I might as well be a thieving liar with a hidden trait for escape. All I want to do is run away. Shut out, then shut in as I have done before. Because however much benefit you genuinely believed your chosen course of action would bestow upon me, I can tell you there was none. I want to dig a hole, six feet deep as it is wide, and bury myself. Then in the dark, I shall slice open my chest, gnaw at my heart, suck on my intestines, curl into myself, and wait for death. I never said I was perfect. You should know that by now.