the more that i drink,

the closer you're here,

the better i feel,

if i could be there.

the more that i drink,

the less that is there,

the better i feel,

i don't want to hear.

the more that i drink,

the less they will know,

the better i'll feel,

the less i am here.

the more that i drink,

the less i could care,

the more that i bear,

the less you are here,

but i'll try to be here.

as a child,
i didn't know
i was lonely
but now,
as a woman
sitting in a
quiet room,
i am reminded of
all the monsters
my mind created
to distract me
when i was
all alone

im not wanted here anyway.

it's dusty, i swipe grime off my skin
my memories piled up in stacks of
knick-knacks, yellowed notebook pages,
and drawings from when i was twelve
i haven't cleaned my room in a year
too scared, anxious
to touch anything
the fear of breaking my fragile sense of identity
that i've clung to

it's desperate, lonely
sleeping in a dusty room

i wipe the sweat from my forehead
cobwebs weave through my strands
clinging in clumps as i
rummage through my belongings

i hadn't seen these things in a while
remnants of when i was
happier, even though i said i wasn't

i'm a year older again
and soon i will be years and years older
and i will leave this room behind

for now,
as i stay for
a little bit longer
let me revert back into
the child i was.