curious thing, the mind 
it wanders around the pages of poetry,  
it dreams of the books i've read,  
and it fantasizes about what could never be.

undeserving or unworthy,
maybe too great, they told me 
only for my pride to purr contently at the idea.
not a comfort, but it distracted me.
a second, only.

i never belonged, and never will;
might said this if i was feeling dramatic.
truth to be told, ive grown bored of painting my sorrows as tragic. 
Pathetic? pathologic?
These are more right, I feel.

No, you can't see it, 
but I am sick.
it's terminal I fear. 
it's rather obvious though, isn't it? 
no, it doesn't show under the form of sullen cheeks, 
nor the oh-heartbreaking silhouette of bones that once suited me

Oh, it suited me rather prettily
They didn't agree. 

I once felt such a hunger for the forgotten words,
their peculiar meaning, as if one could finally capture the very essence of what I felt.
I've run down the circles,
The novelty of hope faded long ago.
I let it sink then prayed to drown.

I listened to the most heartbreaking melodies,
Read the most gut-wrenching quotes,
Tried on the darkest clothes,
Wore cynicism and sarcasm as a desperate cry for help

Now I swallow pills
Sleep through the day 
Stare at the night.

A fight? No, it's a humiliating defeat 
I wander like a shell
I am nothing, if a parody of what I used to think of myself 

I crave the end of the void
It must have something 
Maybe I'll crash against it if I keep falling

Yearning for salvation, 
eternal sleep I pray,
climbing back up? laughable
this hole could be endless, 
but i've always been closer to the bottom of it
it's too early for you to tell,
but my darkest, deepest secret,
it was always too late 
and, truthfully, I don't think I'll have it any other way 


the pages of poetry,  
the books i've read,  
all that could never be
it was only a survival strategy
...


"petite pluie délicate"