I am nothing. I feel nothing, lay down and become anything else but everything existing. I become the blankets and the pillows; still, and always inanimate, but soft, feathery, floating. I exist in my head, in your pipe, in my memories, burning away to nothing. I'm not real, right and wrong have no definitive lines and I am wrong all the time, nothing and wrong and right and tired. I sleep and become my dreams, all I want to do is sleep because I don't exist in this life. I don't exist by any means, If there is no evil, only absence of good, then I am empty; hollow. Someone cut me opened and scooped all the real and good things out, carved me like a pumpkin, and smashed me when the candle burnt out. Smashed me because I burned too loud, or not loud enough. Love slips through me the way sand slips through your hands even when you hold tightly. It would take me infinity to reciprocate any affection given to me, so it's easier to leave than to wait. I'm bruised with good intentions that keep spreading across my body and anytime something good touches me, it hurts. Anytime I feel anything, it hurts. So I became nothing. I am always nothing.