she's crucified with her emotions
can't let go of the monsters,
the creatures wandering her mind
phantom noise
phantom smell
—strangely getting used to it
how long has she been suffering?
no one can really tell
she reveals to the world
how exuberant and euphoric she is,
she paints graceful faces on people
she encounters
yet she can't seem to twist a brush
to paint a canvas of her own
—blank
she never shows the world the true h e r
she's pusillanimous, she knows it
as she coalesced with people
of different fields of life,
she wonders,
when will this end?
this pretending.
how long does it take
for life to just consume her
completely?
she never obtains an answer,
so she hurts herself,
blames herself
and then suddenly,
detaches and blacks out.
ophelia nightingale.
