On the bench at the end of the world

So now I cannot be trusted because I haven’t been able to trust, I cannot guarantee safety because I haven’t felt safe and I cannot meet myself because my demands haven’t been met. If you look me in the eye and ask how I’m feeling, my soul panics and backs up against my kidneys. My sad, impatient expression means I hope you turn away because answering truthfully would break my ankles trying to hold the weight of my heart.

There is no tree for me to rest under. There can be no growth for the adult limb. The riches inside of me give off so little light. If I’m driven by anything, it’s by some tired spirit, angst-ridden and starved, waiting for its shift to end. If I’m driven by anything, then I’m a vessel out of control.

Nothing about me is comparable. Everything is laughable.