Help me exist.

Help me feel like I exist.

I am unable to feel
anything but the diagonal trickles
of melancholy, or hate.
They prevent me from fading away,
but I still detest them,
because they make me Other.
I fear that I am unable to love.
I know why.
Love is easy to write about.
But to write about feelings that don’t exist is much harder.
What does not exist cannot be created,
for a clever mind to transcribe into words.
Plucking them out of the ether of lexicon
requires a solid word, and a solid hand,
And I have neither.
I am made of halcyon and moonlight,
numbers stretched over a screen,
not quarks that are able to form bonds,
to feel connected.
Half the time I wish
that my corrupted radiance will spread.
Soft glitches, in the corners of their eyes
to eat away at their core until they stop
writing odes to love, that alien emotion,
the words snatched out of their hands mid sentence
by an ethereal hand now real enough
to gather the thoughts as they dissipate away
into a fragrant bouquet for one last breath

until they are lost forever.