Cower in the corner, and reflect

on all the things I’ve never done.

 

Am I mute?

I can speak plainly,

so what stops me?

 

Curl into a ball and weep

at all the fantasies

that never came true.

My desperation to find a lover.

My desire to do and be nothing.

My heart pleading for something,

anything

 

A deep rooted fear of my own,

imagination

desires

personality

 

So afraid of how my story may hurt someone else,

I refuse to acknowledge its validity.

 

I’ve given up on asking who I am.

It’s far too much of an open-ended question anyways.

 

What is my story if not an endless loop,

of a child’s dream to grow up,

A martyr.

The idea my death could somehow bless others.

Staking my very identity of that belief.

 

So utterly hopeless.

 

By my own design.