how strange, that all of these voids and lights and dust in my chest, will never be more than lights and voids and dust to you.

there is no gaping abyss or infection in the word, only the sound of my voice modulated by the shape of my mouth.

there is no lingering burst of emotion through my chest and into my being, only odd confessions that spill from my lips that sound like weight and a heavy pain.

there is no scattering of remnants of what used to remain, no rush of desperation to cling to shards of glass, only strange noises that depict an understanding you’ll never know.

how strange, that everything that makes up my being, every gaping wound and glowing scar, will never be more than words i find that you can’t quite discern.