I haven't been everywhere, but it's on my list.

Two years ago I listened to the rain on the radiator
  sizzle and ping into obscurity.

And I sat up in the no-account streetlight light and said,

             No one has done anything to me.

And the drops kept coming like offerings in the obedient now.

        That’s true. You have done all this to yourself.

              My covers were not constrictors, nor my walls.
My elaborate constructions
               were built of stencils and explosive devices.

And in that minute I had made you all up.

Not only the lovers whose sickly pink lilies
                  I had wished into sunflowers,
      but also the whiptail lizards and the live oaks
that I suspended in my spine to keep me standing,

    even the first fist-bent indiscretion, even the few people I trust, gone
to a ghostly cofferdam of my own mind.

And shit, I thought.

If madness has come to make me a make-believer,
                       then make-believe me out.

But why would I want to be so dead-set,
                  so hell-bent on the actual?

Why must you exist, so I can exist?


Ada Limón, from Fifteen Balls of Feathers.