Left alone with a perfect life
About to start the decay
Slowly the rotten fruit, absorbing
into the recesses of my belly
Just above my pelvis, almost in my hips
The sickening feeling of dread
Eating away at my intestines
The feeling of regret, regret, regret
So much regret
The little girl behind my eyes whispers into my eardrums
in the quietest voice I have never heard
"You think everything is fine and shiny?
You think you finally have it figured out?
Just wait
You're about to be thrown into a tidal wave of broken expectations and bitter pain."
A stunning new life
Balancing on a ladder in front of a doorway
Maybe that's why I have the poisonous feeling
That this is all about to end.

Solitude
My best friend
It's name is solitude
It brings me gifts of cleansing and hope
Reminding me that silence is not golden
Nothing this transparent could be classified as gold
Solitude is the battery that charges every outlet in my brain
Creativity, logic, faith, insight, wisdom

Unceasing clarity washing through my mind
The only one I feel comfortable with
Comfortable enough to frown
Of all the realities I've lived through, I have to say
Solitude is my favorite
And until today I forgot how nice it was to have as company

I don't know why I'm so drawn to it

It's indecisive, but in a good way
It will always be in between white and black, light and dark
And constant adjustment can fade it more towards one or the other
But it will still be gray,
foggy,
indifferent


I like it because it's subtle and it's sad
Not sad
What's the right word for it?...
Melancholy
It flutters in the background ever so softly and never seems to have any complaints about how the other colors are more popular or how it wishes it was as fun and happy as red or yellow
It's not the most appreciated color
But it is content with itself
I like that

And even though gray doesn't get invited to birthday parties or firework displays
It holds more depth and wisdom than the entire rainbow
That is why I like the color gray

But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?