stress blooming forward
in chest like
erratic butterflies flapping
away
and thoughts spiraling
down towards
my stomach where
they do not dissolve
in acid, no matter how
desperately
i ache for them
to leave me

times when
i think about my
future - they are not
etched in stone, they
are fleeting and temporary and as
miniscule as grains of sand

how could they be anything
more than dust
when the possibility
of any greatness
or worthiness
or meaning
is so
tiny, so
small
as to not
even
be there at all