My lips are to the paper.
I inhale and exhale tiny coughs.

For a moment, I'm a gypsy.
but I stand still.
I stop myself from moving from where I am
Because I'm happy,
My surroundings become stale.

I press the pen to the paper
I breathe in shaky breaths,
And wonder why
My head feels so loose.
I wonder how
I can act like I feel so alive,
And feel absolutely nothing.

I stop myself from thinking
By pressing my lips against a bottle sometimes
I need the sadness just to know I'm alive.