i am hidden somewhere behind hushed
silences, sporadic breaths, and a
fluttering heartbeat

i am sat towards the front of the
class with tears brimming my eyes
and fingers dotted with blood and paint

maybe someone will see me someday

The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.

Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.

And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.

Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.

Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.

We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.

The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie.  Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,

but not striking up a conversation.

The world around me keeps
spinning on,
it is
    fast
         paced,
smells become
                                                 indistinguishable.
The air stands still
                                                    it tastes stale.
different colours  b-l-u-r
                                                        to grey
A windowpane of
                                                           rainy
                                                           ­                                                    patience.


Voices
                                                          scre­ech
                                                         painfully
noises w~h~i~r~l
                                                       ­  to echos
                                                           ­                                     not unlike sanity
                                                         fleeing to
                                                              ­                           a place inside myself.
                                               An eye of the storm

Next destination
                                                              cool
                                                            ­                                                   solitary,
time­lessness-
                                                       ­                                                              calm.
                                        
                  ­                                     *s e r e n i t y

How tragic it is to be a thinker.
To have such a remarkable ability
To possess something that creates
While, in that process, destroys.
I associate with a group of thinkers
With no clear place to direct our ideas
So they bounce around in our heads
Gaining force and speed
Becoming more and more painful
Until you can label our brains
As a weapon of self-destruction.
I associate with a group of thinkers
Who have thought themselves
Into pits of depression
Because numbers and endless possibilities
Never stop filtering through their head.
How sad it is that I associate with people that I can't help
I am friends with people
Who have driven themselves into introversion
People that have too many thoughts to collaborate on
But have catapulted themselves into the depths of their own mind
An entirely too frightening place to be
On your own.
How tragic it is to be listening to your friends
Evaluating his state of mind
While you sit in the back of the car
And stare at the analog clock on the dashboard
Thinking about different number combinations for 12:36
That 1x2x3=6 and 1+2+3=6 and 6-3=2+1 and 6/3=2+1
How tragic it is to associate with a group of thinkers
With no clear place to direct their thoughts
And to be a person who cannot pull their friends out
From the murky waters of their own mind
Let alone herself.

"It's called an Ouroborous",
says the voice,
in the back of her mind in
the front of my skull;
and this coffee taste like cigarettes,
but it makes more sense than
conversation.
Cause for later, like I "need"
an excuse to duck into the
night like a spy. Pity; cardboard boxes
don't work as well in real life.
Privy to the ebb, but avoiding it?
A shape that consumes itself?
A cloud that eats clouds-
A saint to any who would
worship in a mirror.