Am I supposed
To be here?
This doesn’t feel—
This doesn’t feel—

real.

I’m sleep-walking
Through a lucid dream.
It’s so, so loud.

I don’t hear anything at all.

My mind is only
Television static.
Why can’t I—
Why can’t I—

𝘉𝘶𝘻𝘻.

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

As the aliens
Watch us, they say,
“What a fickle nature,
To fall in and out of love,
Like it’s a doorway:
An impossibly liminal space.”

I’m trying to write
About happy things
Because I no longer
Want to be sad.

The problem is,
The well runs dry
Whenever I run
Out of bad.

My pen doesn’t work,
It won’t write at all
Because the ink
Was made out of tears.

I have nothing to say
So maybe I’ll try
Again in a couple of years.

Bathed in the amber light
I watch these fields in slumber
Resting beneath scattered snow
As the music crescendos.

The mountains gleam in the distance
But every crevice and branch
Is coated in gold
Like a remnant of Midas’ touch.

Peace washes over me
A purifying, gentle force.
The sky’s tender blue
Kisses the horizon.

Don’t call me pretty.

I am not a delicate
Rose to be plucked
At your fleeting desire.

𝘕𝘰.

I am
Visceral
Venomous
Vibrant.

I am not a willow
Bending in the time
Of your gusts.
A pastel shade
Of pink, meant to be
Seen, but not noticed.

𝘕𝘰.

Don’t you realize?

𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦.

Got a
Weak mind
Weak heart
Weak fingers,
So I let it all
Slip right by
But still, sometimes
It lingers.

I am too rational
To fall apart completely
Like a crumbling leaf
In the autumn breeze
But here I am.
I am a piece of machinery
With a faulty circuit board
With a touchy circuit breaker.
Tiny signals
Trigger a robust response
Because anything larger
Exceeds my design limitations.