I do not exist.
I am theoretical,
a vague conception.

A collection of cracked and shattered eggshells,
swimming through their shields of protection.
In theory, my mind is the static of a television screen,
with no news to report, just the quiet credits
of a horror loading a few dozen miles away.

Is it a Tuesday?

I am strong,
and determined,
and powerful.

I cannot be ripped to shreds.
My strings cannot be cut.

I am a daydream,
sweet and surreal,
the lustful longing
only a little girl
can dance beneath.

I’m a torturer,
my own body my canvas,
my mind a delusional path
of destruction doused
in little wishes.

I am immortal
until proven otherwise.
You cannot ****
a trailing thought.

How many more seconds will tick past
before my body is mine again?
How many clocks must reset
before the moving pictures move on?

I long to be spontaneous.
I want to hold my hand in yours,
sip a coffee and slip my sunglasses through my hair.
I imagine the sunsets we could watch together,
the car trips, and the daisies.
We could scream in the cornfields,
you could get down on one knee,
we could travel the world together.

I long to be important.
I know I’m intelligent.
Maybe if I could memorize,
if I was in control of my own thoughts,
if I wasn’t riddled with what he says
and her opinions and her rebuttals.

I can see myself being happy.
I know how to daydream.
I want to write a novel,
I want to learn the secrets of the stars.

How can I reach my goals
when you complete them for me?
How can I live a meaningful life
when yours is covering the screen?
How can I get rid of you,
without having to say goodbye?

Because under all these linguistic strategies,
under poems and prayers,
the truth is that I am in love with you.
I, on purpose, hold you close.
The only stories I see among the stars
are the ones you step foot in,
the ones I’ve written for myself.

I am a dreamer with multiple dreams.
I am a novelist for two worlds.
I want to take the path not yet taken,
with a go-pro following the one that has.

I don’t want to lose you.
I’m terrified of losing me.

I have this story idea
But I’m too afraid to start.

A smart man one said
That the definition of insanity
Is doing the same thing
over
and over
and expecting
a different result.

So what’s the point of
Even writing the idea down?
When I know I’m being insane.