you ask, Dear,
why i am not nice to this world

well, Dear,
it is because this world has not been
nice to me

i starve myself
so that i will disappear.

i starve myself
because i feel as if already
i'm not even here.

for so long

i believed you were wrong

but i am so tired now

maybe you were right all along.

did you stop to think
that your unkind words
fell upon the shoulders
of a weary and fractured soul
and your's were the last
she needed
to break

isolation
is like a tiny gray box
soundproof
sealed tight from the outside world
and you have no key
no way to escape
because once you are there
you can't get out
this is your home now
this tiny gray box
just you
and your thoughts

roads are like veins

tree roots

physical manifestations

of human nomadism

written chemically

into the base pairs

of our DNA.

i like to read poetry

because it is like reading someone's soul
splayed out across the coffee table

they bare all for you.

i read poetry because i am alone

and it is the closest I can ever be
to another human.