It has started
occurring to me
that I rely
too much on my
muses
to give me worth.

We are
too young
and I am
too small
to start giving
bits of myself away
to be stretched and
expanded upon
by others.

I cannot
be restricted
to dependency
or limit myself
to the dead-end
streets
paved by
people with names
I forgot.

I can walk
in whichever direction
I choose
and write words
that I will not
dedicate
to you.

I forgot I was human,
forgot days were different,
forgot sensories were enhancing,
forgot emotions added depth,

I forgot because I got caught up in it

The pen drew dots in my eyes,
my grip lessened and there I was
Nothingness

No, not bad
No, not good
Nothing

Nothing was...
Nothing

I liked to spend most of my time being nothing
in the bath tub
While the days happened without me
and blurred over like watercolor

I have been longing to feel for so long that when it finally made its arrival I was too acquainted with the numbness and ran away.

I often catch myself
involuntarily whispering a phrase;
"I wish I were home"
while at my house.

I dream of a character
that I know exists but I'll never find
because I'm too comfortable with
being alone all of the time.

Light pets my cornea every morning, through the sunshine printed tapestry...
I prefer the synthetic things in life,


the irony.