​Months

In the words of Virginia Woolf,

I’m terrified of passive acquiescence

I Live In Intensity,

But even after staring at that sentence for months on end

I wonder whether if my purpose lays in this city.

No, I don’t think the city is my problem

I myself am

And I think that’s the toughest pill to swallow

Is my life damned?

For so long I’ve lived for others

For a lick of love

And a touch of empathy

Now my walls are caving

While I’m understanding that, that wasn’t me.

Who am I?

I feel like a poltergeist haunting this earth

With nothing else to do but exist

And at the same time not exist at all.

For years I’ve wished to just dissapear

I’ve longed for deep affection

Like a thirsty being awaiting their next drink

I was never made an exception

Even by the ones I held closest to me.