tooth and claw

i don’t remember what i ate for breakfast this morning. which shouldn’t disturb me as much as it does. i leave for school without my binder, my phone charger, and my morning coffee. i look both ways as i walk home. i keep my eyes down; my voice low.

i don’t ask for permission, i don’t do anything at all; just fade into the sky. and you know, i dance among the distant stars sometimes–but only when no one’s awake to notice.

and i fight tooth and claw, for… i don’t even know. a chance to breathe, or hold on, or let go? or just get the hell out of here; run for my life from this endless, looming forest. from the car dealerships, and the haunted children. so maybe i’m weak. maybe i betrayed you.

maybe i’m a heartless cog in the machine; maybe this is just what i have to do. maybe i’m obsessive, and selfish, or just flat out stupid.

you can say it. go ahead. barrage me in sandpaper expectations until i’m nothing but dust. tell me that i’m delusional and crazy, if you must. but i’ve come to realize… i’m not your self-portrait, i never was. i’m my own goddamn tableau. in all its fucked up glory.

and i’ll figure it out. i’ll make sense from this chaos, i’ll trudge through knee-high drifts of snow. and when the clock strikes midnight, i’ll disappear with the ravens, in a puff of smoke.

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