My mouth is dry;
my tongue is heavy;
my words are buried beneath the dust.
I hate it, you know.
I haven't felt real in days.
I haven't said anything real in days. in Months.
I haven't felt anything shaking from inside of me, determined to claw its way out. All my monsters have silenced. All of my feelings have numbed.
Every hour, passivity tries to claim me.
gets closer to claiming me.
has claimed me.
This is the place that I call home:
where moths can see much freer skies
and beat their wings against the glass
trying to get to them--to no avail.
They'll die from exhaustion long before
they can ever taste that sovereign air.
You didn't see, but I drove by your house.
You might not have been inside,
but to me, you were. I did not stop;
I could not stop--I've forgotten how.
Twenty years and my life has set
itself in drive; no break, no park,
and no reverse. On the days my heart
and fingers itch to leave the wheel,
I drive by, and in that split second
I forget. You say, "It's okay."
You say, "I've always been inside
waiting for the day that you stop."
I know it's not true;
but I, like so many before me,
have learned to paint my own reality
and step in through the brushstrokes.
currently listening to: The A Team by Ed Sheeran