everything looks red
and misty in my eyes,
I must be just another selfish kid
waiting to die.

your face,
when it comes to mind,
doesn’t seem the same.
its far away
and covered up,
a distant mountain shrouded in haze.

“us” is a fantasy,
birthed from a story that never began,
and neither of us can
let ourselves believe in fairytales again.

the magic shattered on the floor
and the truth’s mile-long stare,
like a lighthouse
shining without pity,
casting away the fog
and illuminating
the boulders and whirlpools
that stand before the shore,
for those who dare to look.

but I stand dazed in the doorframe,
heart not hard enough
to accept a sudden loss of hope,
eyes only able to make out
fuzzy omens of pain.

it’s not you,
oh, I’m sure you’re fine,
but, something must have made me a mutant
somewhere along the line.

the closer I get to people,
the more I realize I’m just wasting their time.

you could never truly want me,
I doggedly believe,
and with our contrasting expectations,
we’d both only disappoint
and sully our dreams;

I’d pretend to be bored,
you to be mad,
we’d realize our incompatibilities
and not care,
but fear rejection
and let that fear fester
until, with both bubbles busted,
we’d sulk sad-faced and resentful.

either man’s more isolated
than I’ve forced myself to believe,
or it’s just me.

so which is worse,
to drown
(silent,
lungs filling and popping,
heart screaming and stopping)
ten feet from the shore,
where beachgoers
drink, and tan, and kiss
under a bright sun
that makes way for limitless and not-so distant-stars,
or to be born
into a windowless cage,
but behind the impenetrable walls
and your eyes’ red haze
you’re sure
there’s a limitless and beautiful stranger
trying to cut out a door?