in my poetic attire
these combat boots worth the ciggarete im holding,
these braids spun to make myself approachable, to fill my face in, to frame it as alluring
im watching the rain fill the crevices of the pathway, one drop hits, one wave away from drowning.
my hands glide on jawbones, neck, shoulders to conjure up enough warmth for another day
to simulate company.
you see the echoes of solitude, when heard, turn into ache and i can only take...
when i ask around the house "don't you feel lonely?" im met with appearances
yet they never really occupy the lack, they encouraged pretenses around this hollowness
i've been feeling myself in frills and pleats
beaten by this hungry wind outside
of course im self soothing
it's the only thing I'm doing
who else could if not me?