Perhaps

turned inside out
you’ll only find seams
on my skin
ends of who i am
and who they are
sewn with
threads of words
slurred thoughts,
anxiety and tics
in a zigzag of
highs pulled up by confessions
and valleys filled with guilt


i count the nerves
peeking shamelessly
from my wrist,
like wires waiting to
be freed into a body
that has a finite soul to it
– a body capable of living


i hear their cheerful
voices in the morning
forming stars while
bouncing off the sunlight
it looks like it’s
half past eight
it is half past eight
but i pretend to sleep
or perhaps i am sleeping
so that they don’t remember
that i exist
or so that i don’t remember
that i exist
while i am conscious lying there
thinking about seams and wires
about writers who choke my imagination
by saying too much of what i’d rather
have only me say
about people who are too confident
to be disillusioned
about pens whose caps are so tightly
stuck to them that my words lose
their willingness
by the time my strength
out-strengthens its grip
about how repulsively structured
most of my thoughts are – rooting from
disliking almost everyone
who i know knows me
about how long each hopeless
poem which has been stuck in my head
since the day i was born takes to be written
about how fools scavenge for profoundness
in books ridden with everyday and vouch on
being everything that falls under their
understanding
about how my morning tea is getting colder
every second i breathe
about my mould in the bed which
becomes more comfortable the more
numb i am to its shape

about

others
things
yet me
all the time

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