it's in bottles of bleach
piles of books to read
the twisting of desperate fingers.

it whispers in endless lists
screams through fitful pacing
scrapes its nails against stolen dreams.

begging for a crowd
to surround and drown
its hungry grabbing voice.
what would i do
to be rid of you?

                                                           ­                               apparently very little.



the alone sounds of
pen on paper
a turning page
wandering restless feet
speak to me of all that's
                                       gone
                                                empty
      ­                                                                 ­ incomplete,



when does it stop?
how does it end?
silence the wrong kind of loud.

"Get a Grip"
"It's Alright"
"You're Overreacting"
                               mantras i cannot avoid.

breath quickens
as nothing happens in an empty room
that spins for no one to see

no one that is except
for me
who cannot be left alone.



they said i'd grow out of it.