I misplaced myself,
just like,
my favorite,
pen.
The mirror,
it’s broken,
a lack,
of reflection.
I’m not,
too sure,
what happened,
but I lost,
phone signal,
and my steps,
I didn’t print,
a mapquest.
My glasses broke,
I thought,
I made it,
home,
I’ll stay in bed,
I promise.
That’s just,
a tree,
instead,
blurred from,
reality.
This isn’t fair,
I didn’t ask,
for this,
she did,
I’m not,
her,
she’s already,
dead.
The mirror,
it’s broken,
I’m here,
instead.
A game,
I forgot,
the rules,
to play.
I don’t think,
this is something,
you could,
possibly,
understand.
From a person,
who isn’t,
a person,
just a bunch,
of swirls,
and squiggles,
that forgot,
how to,
get home.

I can be happy,
a beautiful sight,
in the sky.
In an instant,
I can be dark,
and pour,
like a thunderstorm,
one that makes you,
hide from,
my sight.
Then suddenly,
the skies are clear,
and I’m nowhere,
to be found.
Like a cloud,
I am needed,
but also,
not.
The background,
that sometimes,
blocks the shine,
you look,
for shapes in me,
but you’d much rather,
keep the sun,
in your eyes.
I am,
a cloud,
dull,
yet also,
full of depth,
but I do not,
last long.
Just a temporary,
beautiful sight,
that hides stars,
sunshine,
and the moon,
at night.

I guess this,
isn’t to,
You.
But it,
kinda sorta,
is to,
Me,
instead.
If that even,
makes any sort,
of sense.
I just,
really wanted,
some sort,
of miracle,
to happen,
I don’t really,
know what,
that was,
or even,
wasn’t.
Maybe it’s,
nothing,
all I know,
it’s not,
something.
Farewell,
Me.

It was easier,
so much,
easier,
to not,
see,
your face,
when I hugged,
you tight,
so tight,
to say,
goodbye,
in my,
heart.
And I know,
you don’t,
realize,
that each time,
I expect,
your lips,
to press,
against,
mine.
But I must,
say so long,
in not,
just my,
heart,
but also,
my mind.
And yes,
it’s hard,
because you,
mustn’t truly,
know,
the torment,
I’m putting,
myself through,
because I,
have fallen,
deeply,
behind.
How grateful,
I am,
to the half moon,
tonight,
when I,
said my own,
goodbyes.

“You don’t,
have to,
worry about,
me.”,
she says.
Mouth ******,
after spitting,
out words,
covered in,
razor blades.
Maybe it’s something,
you can understand,
or maybe,
it’s something,
that makes you want to run,
straight to Neverland,
and dim witted,
Peter Pan.
“You should,
probably,
worry about,
me.”,
she should,
have said.
But words covered,
with cotton,
tend to cut,
much deeper,
than the ones,
not.

Is it,
so bad,
that I want,
to run,
head first,
into it all?
Is it,
so bad,
that instead,
of holding,
my breath,
I’d much rather,
drown?
Is it,
so bad?
Tell me,
is it so,
bad?
I just,
want to,
scream,
at the world,
instead of,
into my pillow.
Is that,
so bad?

My heart,
is quite,
uncomfortable,
in the pit,
of my chest.
But it also,
doesn’t quite,
fit,
in the palm,
of your hand.
Maybe if,
you squeeze,
just a bit,
you could,
shrink it.