i scramble in the dark, i make myself up. every instance, another me, another entanglement, something else i cannot sustain. i scramble my brains over a cold skillet, nothing cooks. nothing even simmers. i grow stale. i am lost, i make myself up, ten fold, twenty fold. the need to disappear, overwhelming. to not be, to erase myself, to obliterate. not out of malice, not to destroy, to create anew. blank slate, dig up even the foundation. there is no foundation, only dirt. it’s all been built upon dirt, mud, shaky ground. i cannot sustain, i scramble.
i have never been reached, i have yet to be touched by another person. i have yet to be moved. i am always looking for a way out. i am always looking to not be.