I live on the edge of a chair
Tethered to the rafters
everyday I dream of slipping
Testing this potential energy

My toes curl around the wood
My heels lift me up
My fingers trace the rope
I am potential energy

My feet ache
My legs ache
My body aches
One day I’ll collapse

I live my life on the edge of a chair
tethered to the rafters
one of these days I will slip
I will be born kinetic.

I’m numb below the ankle
I walk on your eggshells
I pay no kind to splinters
I stomp on your land of glass

but in the middle of the night
when one sleeps so soundly
I weep at the sight of my wounds
for they do not ache a bit

I can stitch them myself again
using thread from my knickers
I make it much easier for you
to do as you do, I’m still bleeding

consequently I’ve left in shards
this repeats most every time
and at mid-sky I do it all again
I hear crunching beneath my skin

I think that’s why I feel nothing
nothing below the ankle
nothing below the belt
I’m cast away in a body of glass

I am a napkin
discard me.

Doodles and grease and all.
Discard me.

Like I’ve been discarded before
Again and again

No more friends.
This always happens.

If you ask them what happened
They’d blame me.

That’s probably fair.
If you don’t consider the disregard of my existence, pushed aside for others comforts.

I am a nice character yes indeed,
but you hate the actor inside.

Does it pain you to know,
that you aren’t more flawed than I

I give you advice so you might appreciate
everything I’ve given you.

But alas I am nothing. Just a napkin.

Please discard.

Every year,
Like autumn leaves I shed my friends off these twiggy bones
Because they grow too tired

Every year,
This depression it addicts me, a cycle Id rather forget
But it keeps me guessing

One of these years,
I will be found dead, hanging from our garage.
I’ll lay a tarp, I’ve written my will, it’s all put together.

Because every year,
they give up on me just like the years before
I isolate all the same.

Maybe some year,
They can reach out, and see through all my fog
I swear im not boring, just scratch my surface
You’ll see

This year,
I’ll live, to tell the tale, of losing my seasonal friends
But next who knows, I might be alone
I’ll write you when I’m gone.