i love myself less than ever the more i pull away threads. i see right through these rag-doll layers, and it’s startling to feel fragile without the safety of glamour. it seems i’m only alive to slip in and out of my wispy nest of a conscience. the street lights are so hazy. i can’t read their signals in my sleep.
there are gaping holes in the way i was made. voids host meetings with selves long gone. i’m speckled with bottomless pieces forever missing, but something is always living in here; nothing never fails to be nothing. i flawlessly fail to figure out what i am. my sleeves are drawn on, gone soon, like the hollow stamp of an echo. i don’t catch my own callbacks, but i do listen for other things. a range makes a whole. i let sounds nestle in the spaces between my fingers. northern lights boast their powers when i discover what i have yet to sense, all the while i detach every fabric i’ve attracted. i’m considering what i’m made of, really. and it’s more than i’ll ever understand.