trying to sort the confused into piles
there are so many wonders wilting and torn
what-ifs that quip and poke me in the ribs
silted drippings from wrought over-thoughts
mimic the real thing but I can tell that these lines
are just auditioning, just wanting… attention
I’ve been wanting that for so long now
it’s hard to know what voices are real and which ones
just like to hear how they ricochet off the walls of my hollow
Little Miss Spitshit tends to ramble when she’s been silenced
for too long
I’m searching for a me that I’m not sure exists
yester-me takes the reigns and I’m outgoing and social
channeling a memory attached to a song while I shimmy
She is confident, but I am not
just constantly shifting between sorrowful sullen and sad
with intermittent flits of wonder and lightning
scared that I’ll starve and still
refusing to eat any more
synthetic