Shattered

Right now, I have a ghostly look, apparently. People push plates of steaming food at me, cold soda just to put the color back in my cheeks. They smile and buy me bubble gum and cigarette, with an abundance of mercy and concern.

They are alarmed by my freaky staring. I cry the most in the morning. Morning is when time cuts like a blade, when awareness is a sinister surrealist prank, my fraudulent, self mocking, my own fragmented self.

I realized I am withdrawing and feel ashamed, like they are safe in their circle of talk, and I am out in the open air, leaning against the aluminum siding of the house, wondering how a summer day could be so brutally cold. It's straight gray, I cling to my emptiness.

I am still terminally ambivalent over you.