row
upon row
upon row
of books
books with glossy covers
books with broken spines
books with smudged ink
books with missing pages
some have been opened only once
some are too tedious to bother with
some have been forgotten in corners
some are constantly reread
and those ones always seem to be
the ones filled with pain and regret
for some reason they're irresistible
but they hurt to read
so why are those the ones
that are opened the most?

"so how do you feel?"
"fine."
"so what do you feel?"
"nothing."

breathe in
breathe out
inhale doses of cold
exhale pieces of soul
watch
as soul blends
with translucent fog
becomes one
with the water
hanging in the air

there is no more night
there is no more day
there is nothing
but misty grey
and breathing in
and breathing out
and becoming one
with the water
hanging in the air

to drift through the cold
suspended alongside
water molecules
slowly breathing away
soul
slowly sinking into
oblivion
to simply breathe in
and to simply breathe out
and to call this...

grounding?

staring
at a plain white ceiling
eyes burning
hands frozen
not moving
not blinking
not thinking.
what's the point?
4:06 AM
why sleep?
why do anything
but stare
at a plain white ceiling?

in a city
where no building
is more than
four stories high
i am trapped

in skin
i do not love
do not belong to
do not recognize
i am trapped

I am not characterized
by red roses,
white pills,
dark circles,
or by sad poems,
dark clothes,
running mascara.
I am not
a warrior,
an angel
a silhouette,
or a dream,
a story,
a greyscale photograph.
My mind is sick,
not beautiful,
not tragic,
and not aesthetic.
If I jump,
I die.
If I cut,
I bleed.
And my death is forever.
And my blood is red.

how is it that something can still mean
nothing?
how is it that nothing could still mean
something?
and how can the nothing that means something be the same nothing as the something
that means
nothing?