I have nothing to say.

Do I have nothing to say?
An empty 1% Lowfat milk carton on the floor says otherwise, and a woman screaming to be understood; for her self proclaimed misery to be reconciled by any other but herself, says otherwise to that otherwise.

I am not sure which side I should take.
Regardless, the heartless engine upon my ear is ready to evolve;
to explode with purpose beyond that of its original design.
"I am not ready to die." I say.
But what knows all knows we are always ready.

Ready to die, to brace the screaming self righteous;
the story writers who readily cast you as the enemy
because the idea of fighting with their selves scares them shitless.