Many times, sometimes only once every so often,
I’m burned alive.
The crackles of the fire soothe me.
So that I can carry this glob of pink matter around,
I leap from the tallest tower,
grab onto the slippery side, and descend
like a ball of paper across the room.
When I feel this way,
I want to punish the way my mind hurts me.
While everyone carries themselves with pride,
I walk alone. The pain of being an outsider,
the pain of losing the one focus
you once had, is silently deadly.
In those moments,
the room feels empty. The pain glides along
and I’m carried off by my toes
and thrown in the pit of despair.