Mirage.

belonging.

shards of glass
like little crime scenes
on your skin
etched dripping red
by anxiety
anxiety too, of knowing people and ending up disappointed
because they treat you as
a mistress to all their
hidden desires they can
never acknowledge
so you become shame,
so ashamed to
never be claimed,
but claimed unattainable
caged in the altar
of divine appeal
and curiosity
you never wanted,
the world has no
regard for consent anyway
but you still wonder,
whose heart is saved
instead of yours
because the red in
you isn't worthy enough
to be included
in sunsets when
lovers meet in
bookstores
over valleys where
once love to be made was
promised
and promises die
like the little bits
of hope your anxiety
tears from your skin
while you repeat
you're okay
in violent fits of cough
trying to gasp for air
you can't reach anymore,
you can't even reach their
voicemail anymore.
Apparently, you were
just meant to be taken
under white sheets
and directly to your
graves and no where else,
sometimes I wonder
if that is where I belong
anymore.