This never used to happen, but I shake when I say this. When, for once, the fact is that I display some taped off ghost limb that listens to each distanced thought hoarder this life has afforded me. I've been under spotlight and under the feeling I didn't quite earn this. I'm just stealing the burn that our own subs are leaving. We stare to perpetual blindness... Hands outstretched like someone would find us so constantly niched when speech leaks our smiles like, "Fuck this, I like you. I don't know your story, but your bright hues do so much for these dark ones. And I swear the sun comes, just please, let the sharp lungs rip apart my ribcage like I did the pages I wrote for your fondness of ignoring me."

I feel like I speak from my grandmothers disbelief of how big the world's peace can be, a fear she brought in from overseas, yet all these abundancies never did big surprise in me. Just the fact we all live here and share it so differently.

I speak until the stiffness gives way to us warmer, but this isn't the same, I write myself into corners. Because what does this say on a day-to-day basis? My books hold down fears which conflate with me facing it? I don't honestly know. Though was so quick to point blame. Thinking others were monsters though doing the same thing. I mean, I know this has been spinning phrases for praise, sort of playing on lows that you already know. Because empathy face to face distresses assure. Our currents of "weren't you wondering yesterday whether grandma would see a day after delerium had taken her son from her?"

My life needs an opener, so quick to find hope in her. You get what you pay for except when you want more.

I pull at the scraps of artistic people, never sure if the laps through my room will quite equal the fingers my friends lend to woodwind and strings while I manage to make my family see me by saying things like "wonder" and "spirit". Yeah, I honestly fear it. Obsessing, yeah, but I'm addressing it, right? Despite what this year's said, I think I have time. And though that might be, I still speak with an urgency. I don't want to lose the dark in the searching.

Because.

Torn between a painted scene I painted through my later teens, a catered sheen of misery has led to me confusing streams of consciousness as meant to share or brush aside like errant hair. I'm smaller than that motion, blushing at the sight of smiles she bears in bowed reaction to an anecdote that broke my heart a year ago. I hold it all to show, but what I expect to hear back, I can't know.