Insecurity is a fast acting disease.
Pouring into every cell,
thickening the lens,
distorting view.
Erupt in jealousy,
tension fills the chest, breathing deep feels sharp.

Pick at their flaws,
make them feel small, tempt them to inch down to your level.
Do what you can, in every desperate attempt,
But the self disgust still radiates off your skin.

The unjustified hatred will
consume you,
convince you,
that you truly are the victim.

But it is merely a sickness that will eat you away.

Catch a glimpse under the microscope,
perspectives skewed
lens unhinged
liquid light reveals its pathetic placid form.

It's the air,
the waft of coolness that erodes at heat till its steal.
the spread of grey sky; miles and miles.
A phantom limb of memories.
The air isolates and confines,
enough to hide the horizon,
enough for the longing of heat to feel numb,
Impassible; however attempting.
to subside a feeling that makes your gut twist.
A bitter disgust for yourself and the way you let others treat you.
Impassible, yet passive
as you do anything to untangle the sick feeling that lingers.
It's the air,
a reminder on a day like this your worth left you empty.

Just thinking about it,
how simple this specific happiness is.
No obstacles or intricate riddles.
Just being able to look at happiness front and center, as if its an object that can be touched and obtained.
A material that stretches to skin and holds in place.
for a while it seemed beyond recognition; attempting to forwardly search the horizon, no able identification and completely hollow.
Now hands hold.
Many forms can be seen, whether its his, hers, or self.
It stretches miles, a face that can be memorized. Associate it with content things.

However, there are faces that shake the earth completely. Etchings that run deeper than they appear, stabbing pridefully; plunging over and over again with no remorse, even though their battle had nothing to do with it, a battle within themselves.
Thinking about it
and how irrelevant it all is. How ignorance threaded through enough to believe that their actions or acceptance actually meant anything.

See them front and center and feel nothing; association fleeting and less vivid than what used to be seen.
Now the vivid colors lie with what is important.
It took time, to understand its access.
thoughts too clouded to reach; thinking hands couldn't feel anything but emptiness.
Now they reach and feel warmth.

Sun sears the surface of skin, previously flushed in cool, that lasted months.
Its light shines on a book of folded pages left from a stale summer,
dusted and ageing.
Eyes will never see the words: underlined, erased, written, and sealed through the pain of every day of the staleness.

They will stay absorbed in a placid world of four corners, their own words bouncing back on the walls.
Egotistical filters shield those I loved away.
The coolness of winter fills the spaces of the air; eventually dies,
as I thaw out and remember the bitter memory of the staleness.

A book I read over and over again, pages I fold and leaf like I can show them to you.
And a summer I'm trying to face forward.

Chest heaving and full,
air stretching your skin into a thin paper sheet.

A moment where you avoid your reflection,
until every piece of clothing is peeled off,
the cover cascading into silky wrinkles on the ice tile.

A moment when you finally meet your voided gaze.
eyes hardened,
decided, as your hands work through the memory.

A moment you dig into the thin paper until the fuel in your chest deflates,
red exudes and pools.

There is a moment when only pain matters,
the sting taking over and dulling your senses.
-A Moment like nothing else.