how is it
that I can imagine vastly different worlds  
and tell the stories of their people long gone
and paint the linings of universes
near and far,

but I can't seem to
make myself face my own reality
within this world,
my head weighed down like a block of granite
corroding in acidic water,

I used to feel apologetic,
scribbling sorry on tiny scrapes of paper
and tucking them on people's windowpanes
but now, I feel empty headed
and blank,
incapable of making myself think,
stuck laying on my bed in the dark,
staring at the ceiling
in the middle of the night

how is it that in this world,
I can't seem to find anyone to talk to
not even just one person
who'd be willing to listen to what I have to say
with no judgement and pity attached,  

how is it that ever since I was young,
I realized I'd rather live
the lives of other people,
wishing I could dive right into the stories I read,
morphing myself into the main character
with their assured happy lives and endings,

how is it that
I can only get this far in my life