FALSE MARTYR CARTOGRAPHY.

  Martyr cartography was the systematic transformation of events of an anatomical body onto the surface of the tectonic continents.  Although all map projections demand a distortion of physical form, some irregularities were considered acceptable whereas others were not.  Therefore, different projections existed to preserve the core of the self at the expense of the surface.

  Originally used to understand physiological (or psychosomatic) suffering on the tectonic surface,  certain projections of anatomy may have contained deliberate errors or distortions, either as “scar tissue” or "gender dysphoria" in order to help the original owner identify errors of the misrepresented, misnamed, deformed, or nonexistent body.
  While many maps of anatomical tectonics clearly advocate or depict these inaccuracies, those which display an inability to comply with the transformation of the original body have come be known as examples of “false martyr cartography.”  These maps are now often used to locate others imprisoned or executed within their own anatomy, playing a significant role in afterlife recovery and transfinite relations.

  Jillison.  What contours now are clearer than what came before?
  You've been drinking all night (and day).  Still repeating to me the same secret you can't (won't tell anyone else.  Plague water still your only map to nothing to say.

  Latitude.  Longitude.  Everywhere is an identical break down Jillison.

  You just want to ignore as much as you can.  Talk about black me out weather, trustlessness, language backing up into empty space.  Saying to me over and over, I don’t ever want to be us.
  Bottles covering the floor.  Castle points cracking in your voice  Torture rituals (self versus self).  For all the years I’ve known Jillison.  It still felt like I was on my own, alone.  Adjustments to anatomy were only surface deep.  A rotation of body blindness.  Core kept opening and closing.
  Jillison, consciousness causes collapse.  We are here now.  Can't make a map of anywhere else.

  Center of your eye like a compass screaming at me.
  I remember you Jillison.  Awake with your maps, north and blind, south and unable to breathe.  Weak and shivered thin, diet and stress interchangeable, terrified of cracks in the hide.  Still puking?  Jillison.  You said it wasn't going to be same (again).

  Mapskin creased over and over.  Kept blaming it on the answer you couldn’t become.
  Like writing you meant I owed you, an obligation (gesture) toward understanding, certainty, elimination of possibilities.  An identity held, at least, temporarily.
  It was all a cartography of illusion points.  An embarrassment, in every direction, shame, denial of chronological drift.  Continents gone into hiding.  Jillison, I needed a perimeter, an apology from you instead.
  I wanted you tell me (even just once, Jillison), there’s a reason you are here.  There’s a reason you stay here.