people don't like truth,
or beauty, or breath;
they like depth
and context,
or rather the
comfortable despair
in lieu of a lack thereof.

I am letting the telephone ring
unsure if its you
and if it was what I'd say or do
I silence the tone
A part of me does not want to know
but then again I need to
I wish you'd just leave me alone
I've remained haunted by this ghost

This person,
Creature,
This, thing in me.
What is it?

This is not me.
This is not who I am.
It's not who I want to be.
Why is it in me?

Can I ever be free?

I will let go of everything soon enough.
It can happen.
Of course it can.
When will I be able to?

I will destroy this monster.
I will be new.
No, I will be me.
I will return to myself.

When can I be back again?