I am empty
I am nothing
I am no more than the millions of stories I have told myself

My outside is lovely
My insides are bare
There is no one home
My body is full of books and music and pretty things

My soul is a house
With walls papered
With stolen words
The plagiarism of geniuses

My life is a play
I am the star
Play-acting through scene after scene
Pretending

Pretending to be happy
Pretending to be clever
Pretending to be beautiful
Pretending to like boys

I execute the scene without flaw
There is no applause
No curtain calls
No bouquets of roses blushing too deeply

The scenes continue
The play is infinite

Summer, field of fresh flowers
Backyard bonfires
Among cinnamon flavored daffodils
Hazy nights, and hazy days
Hazy cold dark maze built into the back of my mind
Every crack and corner and secret passage ingrained into my memory
Every trap and snare and pit of shame
Suffocating, emasculating holes
Arguments and pain pills and disappointments
A unique enemy in a dungeon I can’t ever really leave
Because even when im gone away
It's in my blood, that sweet smell of cinnamon

I knew my mother once,
Her kindness and simple true advice,
I knew her habits and laughs,
And her love of cooking, family, and life,

She would speak of love,
And reached out to me,
She saw my struggles clear,
I would pour myself into her lap,

And then she was gone,
I don't recognize her now,
Hate and scrutiny filled her heart,
She leaves for weeks at a time,

I miss my mother dearly,
As does my father,
I'm afraid for her,
Why did she leave her sanity?