I'm not dead inside,
I'm alive and well,
there are sparks within me,
so bright I quiet them down,
because they're mine
and I choose who to share them with.

You said people like me are dead inside,
but people like me are waiting,
and waiting, kind sir, is fine.

I can feel my hopelessness in my legs
They’re all sort of settled, sinking into the bed like logs into soft loam
burrowed into by all manner of insects,
hardening their tongues into little tubes and ******* out my flesh with a mighty slurp.
I have found that I exist in a perpetual sigh
apart from every once in a while, when I pause to eat and sleep and watch a car go by with one headlight out at 12:53 in the morning.
I whisper a heathen's prayer that this gross longing exists somewhere outside of myself. I have to find a wall far away and break it down. I don’t want to get trapped under my own rubble anymore. Better to be drowned than crushed.