I feel like I'm dying.
Even though I know I'm not.
I'm breathing, I think.
I have to be,
but I've struggling to feel anything.
Everyone says it's impossible
to die and keep walking the earth
but I feel like the person I am died long ago
and now I'm just sitting in a suit of skin.

On a dimly lit street is a house,
with broken windows shattered from expectation
and a roof not built to hold the weight of living.
The furniture is covered in dusted memories from the past
and the floorboards creak with the sound of every mistake.
The grass that once sat atop the dirt has ran away
and the pool is filled with an ocean of tears.
The laundry hamper is full, piling up with self doubt.
This is my resting place;
a little tattered,
a little sad,
but a little hopeful.

I
am not made of stone,
even if
the way I exist says the opposite.

I
am not made of wax,
even if
the tears that fall disagrees.

I
am not made of paper,
even if
the scrunching of my soul yells otherwise.

I
am human,
even if
the chaos inside my head challenges that.

A little broken,
a little flawed.

Recently I've been having
conversations
with myself, in the dark.
I ask myself questions, like;
"Do you have likes and dislikes?"
"Do you have hopes and dreams?"
"Where do you see yourself in the future?"
I never respond,
I never have an answer to respond with.

I wonder,
how many kingdoms
have I blown to dust
to get where I am?