Sometimes I think of how hardly alive you are at all.
Dodging bullets. Dodging raindrops.
December's here, and this rattling can,
Of a group home (we call a home) can't stay warm.
There are no colors. The world feels dusty.
The thoughts that swim in & out make a traitor out of me.
Suspend myself from the ceiling and watch us all live.
I break and slip porcelain plates.
Abandoned. Restrained. Clinking chain.
Move to the same motions. I stare back at the clock.
How do I convince you I'm living?
Creeping smile, dry lips close.
I entertain thoughts that lull my mind.
Just sitting here in my head (free reign for my brain).
This place is the fly that won't stop following me.
ca

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