i feel displaced in this world
because
sometimes

this stale air
tries to shove itself into my lungs
but it's all too warm

and I'm suffocating
under the pressure of it

and sometimes
i only feel alive

when i'm out of breath
from the trek home and i can
feel
a brightness being stirred

up in the bottom of my lungs
with each gasp
of chilled air

and the bright red leaves under my feet


are real

and at night,
i stare at my reflection in the mirror
my empty expression a misleading façade

as i cut myself open


painting the bathroom walls
with my blood







only for the words


pumping through my veins
to be slowly washed down the drain





along with my sanity

i sit
and i think
that maybe i'm the only one alive
because i'm
surrounded

by dirty white walls
stripped of their warmth and ready to be painted
covering the red tint left
from years of frustration

sometimes i don't feel alive

because these walls are closing in on me and


all i know is my own chest rising and falling with my breaths and









are people even real?

beyond these walls