I come home and look at my room
like I would the stranger that I ******
and didn't leave a phone number to.

I see the blank walls and smell
the sent of stale paint and think
of a life more privileged.

I can't help it.
I live in a box.

I see the world of money
and fame,
I live it.

I stay up and bite my nails
to dust
like it's achievable.

It's ******* not,
and I don't want it.

But I do.