I lose a part of myself,
each day.
The sun smiles,
and I can't smile back.
I only feel,
sometimes.
And that is the worst part;
feeling.
I understand,
each world.
But I haven't quite found,
mine.
The blankets,
don't quite comfort me.
And the light,
doesn't quite reach me.
The slow ache grows,
and grows
until my heart eats itself.
So I sit,
and I write.
And I find myself,
whole again.