sometimes you sit in the dark all alone
and it's not a guiding light that you want,
but for someone to be there with you,
to know that they know the dark, too,
to have them keep you company.
for the light can become a trap, you see,
like a constant pressure to push through,
so you'd rather have someone stay with you
to practice counting each other's breaths.
there's a sense of hope to mutual setbacks,
tethered by the unseen hand you're holding
as you co-write a step-by-step guide to coping.

there is peace to be found in stillness,
watching life play out from a distance
like a belated guest that joined halfway through,
like none of this pain belongs to you
and you could stand up and walk away
anytime if you wished to.
when you see yourself on the screen, does it move you?
do you want to step in and interrupt it,
knowing exactly what's going to happen?
of course, you can always edit it later
before it gets sent to storage,
before you decide which one you like better.
for you are the viewer and the director,
making commentary on your own lack of skill;
an omnipotent deity, if you will.
now that's a comparison you could get behind,
but it's all taking place inside of your mind
and the next scene's coming up soon.
it's a shame you've missed on so much of the plot
worrying about small mistakes.
now you know that nobody else seems to care,
so just take a seat and enjoy the view
like none of those fears belong to you,
watching life reveal itself in the distance.
there is hope to be found in stillness.

this body doesn't belong to you.
you want to crawl out of it,
and the only think you can think of
is how good it would feel
to just peel it off
and disappear.
you can hear them talk about you,
every word is like a slap in the face.
you feel small in this open space,
but their laughter resonates
and all the exits are locked.
so you try to make sense of it,
try to teach yourself their ways,
try to follow the rules of their game.
they say you can't win if you don't play,
but you haven't won yet.
this body isn't the one you chose.
you wish you could give it back,
write a complaint to the maker,
but they don't accept returns.
so you live through your thoughts,
dreaming of the day
when you can change your clothes,
your address, your name,
finally peel it off
and disappear.

you know you're touch starved
when you start having dreams
of hugging someone
and of being hugged.

i have one at least once a week.

it doesn't sound as terrifying
if you split it into
a million deaths,
a million lives, lost individually.
we're wasting our humanity
on empty background noise.
we're forced to lock our gates,
avert our eyes,
pay mortgage with our souls.
it doesn't seem quite as finite
if you just take your pills
and track your progress,
while they wash all the blood
off of the hands
that hold our future hostage.
a million deaths,
a million possibilities,
surrendered individually.

when you make another one
don't forget to recycle what's left of me,
don't forget to pay the copyright fee
just in case i rise from the grave
to reclaim what's mine.

when you look in her eyes,
does the lack of knowledge excite you more
than all of my suffering could before?
does she still respond to my name
or do you get to pick a new one?

she's not me, but i wish she was.
see, it really was you and me both
tired of the lack of variables,
but it felt like we were getting close.
now it's your turn to figure it out.
and if worst comes to worst,
do remember,
you can always make another one.

why would she be here?
why would she leave parts of herself
in a place that's been promised to ghosts?
for reasons unknown,
for motives unclear,
for every line that made her feel
a little less wanted each time it healed.
she stands and waits,
watching the remnants of light fade away,
letting herself submit to whatever comes next.
the whispers grow near,
her vision is blurry,
her posture is rigid,
her heart is so solemnly still.
she hopes to find peace
in leftover pieces that no one else needs,
but she can still use them to fix up the holes
before all of her disappears.
why would she be here?