I am used to
the folds of the fire
burning hot on my skin,
the light it gives
a mockery of the darkness
I surround myself in.

I am used to
covering myself up
in the tidal waves of my sadness-
these tsunamis are my solace,
the way I drown is my comfort.

I am used to
how it feels like
being alone and sad and alone and sad;
these two words so simple,
so relatable
but not by you.

You are not used to
the black holes that form your sanctuary,
as much four walls as any room is
stars are not distant pinpricks
you restrain yourself from reaching for.

You are not used to.

I would always ask if you were
A hundred percent alright. And you would always respond with ninety-five percent. The other five being with me.
But today I asked you again as I sat out in the rain
With my feet freezing - though certainly not as
Cold
As the gaps between each of our own sentences
We both were painfully aware should not be there. A hundred and one percent, you told me.
And maybe that is how I know that I don't mean anything to you anymore.

I am a vase.
I sit alone,
on a flimsy shelf,
my vibrant colors smothered
under a layer of protective dust.

Look closely,
There are cracks in my gently rounding curves,
almost invisible,
where pieces once fit.
All made by the hands of mirrored friends.
Where blossoms of entrancing beauty once stood
there is nothing.

I am empty.

I am a dandelion,
standing alone in a naked field.
My white fluff threatening to leave
at the breath of greener pastures.
I whisper for the gusts not to blow,
but they do not hear.

I am alone.

I am a mirror.
There I hang for all to gaze into
with agonizing vanity.
I am a result
of their deep-set hubris
and ever-present pride.
I am a window to their souls,
reflecting their imagined qualities
as the naked truth of their cruelty.

They smash my candor
into a thousand lacerating pieces.

And I am broken.

It warms my heart to know
That though WE could never be,
You'll keep staring up at the stars
On this lonely planet, with me.

Heavy weighs the death
Of childlike ideals
Their hollow corpses rotted
With severed wrists

The media says “tell no one”
Sleepwalk through reality

I cannot want
I cannot lust
For faces
In a world of masks