or even remember that
despite my sheer smallness and insignificance
writing poems helps me sleep
like weaving my own tapestry of bedtime stories
something larger than life to me

but i’ve forgotten how to write, i guess
i’ve forgotten how to sleep
and how much i loved both
granted, they felt like secondhand talents
thing i’d learned to love only because this pretty girl did
or this pretty boy told me i made words dance and twist

i’ve forgotten how to breathe, as well,
without every other breath sounding like a heavy sob
that i can’t stifle, simply because everyone keeps me at a distance
i might as well be standing alone
in a hallway with the whitest walls;

again, i’ve forgotten how to write poems
i can’t even find the words to tell you
how empty walking near you feels

it’s a distant memory to me,
writing poems
sleeping
breathing

a bit of the distance i’ve wedged there myself
like when i see someone being held
held like that is the only thing keeping them intact
i feel just a little more cracked

but believe me,
being touched makes me cower in fear
and i feel nothing
not the warmness of another body,
not the softness of someone’s heart,
whose made themselves vulnerable enough that you can see right through them

i can’t make myself that sheer
maybe invisible,
but not so crystal clear that you know what is inside;
it’s disgusting,
and you would not be in in the least bit interested,
unless maybe i was crying.