Head Through the Ceiling

I became too comfortable

with the cold

and the snow, and

quiet ideals. You are not ideal.

You walked in through smoke screens

tripping over stricken land

a mirage of what shouldn't been.

Say something.

I sit on my high bed

striped purple sheets, remote controls

and empty bottles

eating my lemon poppy seed muffin.

Wondering,

whether you are wondering about me, too.

I don't love you.

I like you, but not quite

either.

Yet, somehow I

yearn for you.

I care whether you care.

Maybe, I do like you

like

that.

I don't like this, this

being alone

being sick

not having anyone

to try and

fix me

fix the broken

string

I'm scared.

Listening to The XX

makes me want to

watch things on

VCRs, again.

I wish I was home

in my mother's

arms. She has the

strongest shoulder I

know of, they will

not let me go, as

my body shake feverishly

and I sob

cover stories and

lies.

I am weak and

my soul diminishing

I don't know how

long

or

how much

time

until it heals or

rips

in

this basic space.