your own bones not recognising you.
you feel so outside of yourself.
is it consuming ?
to never be pulled into existance ?
blue hands, no pulse in your voice.
so many ways of being alone.
sometimes i remember them all
right before i fall asleep.
maybe it’s not about getting out ;
maybe it’s about the darkness between seconds,
the silence in yourself,
a space so small and soft that
only a touch can destroy.