It's hanging in the air, the piece of you, above the hole in the carpet.
     The hole that was burned there out of anger. Contained by the voice in the back of your mind that pleaded to not allow the fire to spread. The smoke entered through your nose and when it was exhaled, took out of you something you don't remember you lost.
     Adolescent dementia is your diagnosis. You ebb and flow emotions that correlate little to the situations around you. Your eyes refract the scene around you and interprets it as inverted and skewed. You have an ocean in your mind. Stirred by the restlessness of the moon, your tides find a way to hurt you. Water crashes against the back of your eyes until you finally spring a leak.
     You're in math class.
     Pull yourself together.
     You love to walk, because the sloshing in your head now seems to be the fault of your arms gently swaying at your sides. You get lost a lot, no sense of direction. People wonder why you always hit the edges of the desks when you pass. They think you're high. Your bloodshot eyes betray you. You look down when you walk with a destination in mind. Any distraction magnetically pulls you towards it. You reel back and cast your eyes far into the scene of which you stare. Anything around you is now null. You are at two places at once. No. You've simply left your physical body to wonder a minute, you are tethered to yourself by the notion that you have no time to waste gazing listlessly-
     "Get out of the street little girl! Who holds your body captive?! Why are you blind to see oncoming traffic?!"
     You were wondering what it looked like to see a car moving towards you. You proceed home. There is calming music in your ears. You view the world in time with your pace, which is in time with the song. You step and the earth underneath your foot thanks you. It says no one has stepped there before. You're the first the conquer that patch of land.
     You hear this in your head.
     The song's instrumental cacophony ensues to interrupt your acquisition. The world as you see it dissolves into a blur of colors so vivid, you do not know their name. Its transported you far from the road home. You see smoke. It looks like pure light but it behaves like the noxious admittance from your mother's cigarette. You reach out your hand to manipulate it around your fingers.
     It's wet.
     You're outside your house now. Two steps away from your carport. You stand in pouring rain. Water is slipping off the roof onto your outstretched hand. You think for a moment that you do not want to go inside.
     You lock the door behind you as you enter.

You're sorry and it pains you to say.
     You've found solace in other people's pain. Your shoulders were made to bear weight. You've only gotten weaker due to your training of literally everything other than yourself. They can't see your fatigue, after all you're the life of the party. You don't know this, but you're their gravity. You've saved them, and everyone but you can see.
     You are a broken kingpin. You live in what's imaginary. Chess pieces to your command, instead a sacrificed king. You don't dream because that's selfish. You fell in love by circumstance. You don't think you deserve this, you think you're worthless. So do those songs that scream the same sentiment- good thing you're eclectic.
     Intermediate stage of life and you believe you understand the end. Peer into their future, pity their misfortune, manifest your worth in their misguided action.
     "No, you need to do this."
     Show them how. They don't listen. Revert again, lend a hand, upon seeing their inept expressions. You suggest to restart another fictional world you can all escape in. The prophet dictates another prediction: "We'll be here again."