the only degree of separation between us is a loneliness that willingly sustains itself
fixed there by some prior commitment to rejection of help
one second you're an artist, a conduit for something
but later you're human again with razor words blunting
the question marks you wish never got placed
after insomniac thoughts sprawled across your sleepless face
racing itself to get out of a world that is sand sadly swaying
in a dead oyster with no pearly to be found, except on the other side
but how happy can it really be when it chooses to hide
behind the opposite end of the choices that you made
to be happy one minute and regretful the next day?
revolving doors like an airport, a door we're both using
to swing back and forth between, a tango dance with confusion
every person seems to find a rock eventually
to hold onto, to stop moving, or to hide under most likely
but I can't trust that as legitimate happiness, it seems just like me
their motion sickness got sick of this duality
between what we want and really need
I want to run away, but I need you to stop me
as much as you weren't stars or my sun
it's pretty likely you knew me better than anyone
pulling and pushing like tides and wide currents
surviving the bad thoughts to keep the ones that weren't
around when I held you. you felt like an oval
with squarish sides, an armful of noble
thoughts held together with hands across your back
fingers overlapped because I lied about the things we lacked

more than anything, I got sick of the me in you
and scared of the alternative asserting itself as true
no one is owned but that doesn't mean we're free
it means you have to be something before you're anything
I tried to be living, but ended up sleeping
because then when bad things happen, you choose to stop dreaming
three in the morning, but the sweat stains are worth it
dirt in your half full cup is no problem so long as you don't stir it
or lure it out with driving by one more time
to see how their gardens growing, or if the same thoughts are on their mind
we're all coping somehow, you'll find new ways to make your spine pop
hitting the limit where your body makes the tears stop
but we don't cry, at least not privately
it's much more productive to take scissors and atrophy
part of yourself to be seen as once inhabited
by a creature called faith who found your soul and took a stab at it
you spun around the door to find yourself a few years older
sunburn, backpack, a white chip on your shoulder
the door spins again and invites you inside
but you'd far sooner kill yourself than give this another try
that's how we live. on the maxims of everything
there's a thousand more doors, each heavy and spinning
handles waxy, dripping melting
you write on the glass, "you will try, but can't help me."