Warmth

I am bent. Something inside of me curves in ways I cannot comprehend. So much heat from bitter frustration probably made it bent. The fires have simmered, cooled off. Now all I feel is coldness. Dead leaves crumpled underneath my boots. Decomposing and desperate for more time. I can't feel a thing, I need to feel something again.

If writing is a means of coping,
I am terrified I'd be out of words.

Loneliness sings

Windows opened
I let the curtains breathe and swirl,
into a dance so graceful
while late autumn chills blow
and coldness seep across my skin

Curled up into a fetal position
Emptiness parade with familiarity
Loneliness sing to me in company
Myself, is my own stranger to me

For you can live many years planning life
Living like you own all,
Only to realize you know nothing
And you can take years trying to understand someone
Only to find you know little to none about them

So I let the windows open,
And just watch the curtains dance so graceful-
they swirl, while my cavity mind spins empty
With loneliness singing in company.

No more.

I don't know why I've become so cold. That I have to convince myself- by swallowing cups after cups after cups of coffee, or anything. Just to force myself to feel warmth. Heat can be felt transferring itself from the paper cup to my fingertips. But it is not even winter, and my insides are frozen-

So is time.
The traffic in my mind is perfectly still.
I think what was left of perseverance and hope has been vacuum. Crumpled in the corner of my parts somewhere, distilled.

& maybe this indifference is a mechanism.

I don't want to break anymore. I don't understand this anymore.

I don't know what love is anymore.

wherever it is you are going,
you've come from somewhere
wherever it is you've come from,
you're likely halfway there.

The same spot, but feeling different.

Sitting on the fourth floor of the library where I spent so much time in my first year of undergrad...hard to believe it was three years ago.

Here I am, first year again, feeling nostalgic.

Curtain

Realness is because it is so.
No curtains in life to hide behind,
For it is not a window, no-
Nor this be a theater for show.