the Idealized Self

who are we?

[sonimiki]

Hated by life itself./命に嫌われている。

“Don’t you wish for death when you’re feeling weak!

Hardships aren’t as hard as they seem to be!”

…Sure, say that all you want, you’re not fooling me

With those words you never mean.

Keep reading

[dimensionhop]

A Glimpse into the Multiverse : Quantum mechanics.

(This Image is courtesy of Dreamstime.com)

Imagine a world where everything is connected, where tiny particles dance in a cosmic ballet. Welcome to quantum mechanics, the realm where the bizarre meets the beautiful!

Zest for the Unknown: In quantum mechanics, we dive into the mysteries of the universe. It’s like a treasure hunt for understanding how the smallest things work things we can’t see but are essential to everything around us.

Zigzagging Realities: Here, particles can be in two places at once, or they can spin in opposite directions, creating a zigzag of possibilities. It’s a reminder that reality isn’t always what it seems.

Zen of Superposition: Imagine a cat that’s both asleep and awake until you peek inside the box. This idea, called superposition, teaches us about potential and how the act of observing changes everything. It’s a Zen moment—presence alters the universe.

Zany Entanglement: When particles become entangled, they share a connection that transcends distance. Change one, and the other instantly knows. It’s like a cosmic friendship, where bonds are unbreakable, reminding us that we’re all part of a bigger picture.

Zeroing in on the Small: At the heart of quantum mechanics lies a truth: the smallest things can have the most significant impact. This encourages us to appreciate the little moments in life—they might hold more meaning than we realize.

Zest for Exploration: As we explore this fascinating world, we find that uncertainty is not to be feared. It’s an invitation to wonder and a call to embrace the unknown.

In this dance of particles, we discover that the universe is a vast, interconnected web, full of surprises and endless possibilities. So let’s embrace the zen of quantum mechanics and celebrate the mysteries that make our world so enchanting!

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of the Observer

The philosophy of the observer examines the role and nature of observation in shaping reality, knowledge, and experience. In various philosophical contexts, the observer plays a crucial role in determining how we perceive and understand the world, influencing fields such as metaphysics, epistemology, phenomenology, and even quantum mechanics.

1. Epistemology and the Observer

Knowledge and Perception: In epistemology, the observer is central to questions about how we gain knowledge. The subjective nature of observation raises concerns about the reliability of perception and the distinction between appearance and reality. For example, empiricism emphasizes that knowledge comes from sensory experiences, where the observer plays a passive but critical role in perceiving the external world.

Kantian Philosophy: Immanuel Kant argued that observers do not passively receive information from the world. Instead, the mind actively structures experiences according to innate categories, such as time, space, and causality. For Kant, the observer shapes reality by organizing sensory data into coherent experiences, making human perception partly responsible for how we understand the world.

2. Phenomenology and the Observer

Subjective Experience: Phenomenology, particularly as developed by Edmund Husserl, investigates how things appear to observers in their conscious experience. In this approach, the observer’s point of view and intentionality (the direction of conscious experience) are essential in determining the nature of reality.

Being-in-the-World: Martin Heidegger expanded phenomenology to consider the observer's embeddedness in the world. Rather than detached observers, humans are beings who exist in a dynamic relationship with the world, shaping and being shaped by it. Heidegger’s Dasein refers to the human condition as fundamentally involved in interpreting the world.

3. The Observer in Quantum Mechanics

Observer Effect: In the realm of quantum mechanics, the observer effect refers to the idea that the act of observation can affect the outcome of an experiment. For instance, in the double-slit experiment, the behavior of particles (acting as waves or particles) changes when observed, suggesting that the observer plays an active role in determining physical phenomena.

Copenhagen Interpretation: Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg’s Copenhagen Interpretation of quantum mechanics posits that physical systems exist in a superposition of states until observed. This view raises philosophical questions about whether reality exists independently of observation and challenges classical notions of objective reality.

Philosophical Implications: Quantum theory brings the observer to the forefront, suggesting that observation is not merely a passive reception of reality but an active process that influences and even creates the conditions of reality. This has led to discussions about the nature of consciousness and its relationship to the physical world.

4. Metaphysics and the Observer

Idealism: In metaphysical idealism, particularly as espoused by George Berkeley, the observer's role is central. Berkeley argued that reality consists only of perceptions and that things exist only insofar as they are observed (summed up by the phrase “to be is to be perceived”). For Berkeley, the external world has no independent existence outside of being observed.

Objective vs. Subjective Reality: The metaphysical question of whether reality exists independently of observers or is constructed through perception continues to be a central issue. Realism holds that the world exists independently of observation, while constructivism and idealism emphasize the role of the observer in shaping or even constituting reality.

5. Existentialism and the Observer

Sartre’s View of the Gaze: Jean-Paul Sartre explored the concept of the observer in his analysis of the gaze. He argued that being observed by others brings about a kind of self-awareness, often leading to feelings of alienation or objectification. For Sartre, the awareness of being an object in someone else’s gaze causes existential discomfort, as it limits one's freedom and projects them into a defined role.

Authenticity: Existentialists argue that the awareness of being observed often challenges one's authenticity. The need to act in ways that are socially accepted, based on the observer’s expectations, can conflict with living authentically, which is a key existential concern.

6. Ethics and the Observer

Moral Observers: In ethics, the role of an observer can shape moral judgments and actions. The impartial observer is a common thought experiment used in ethical theory, where one is asked to adopt an unbiased, detached standpoint to determine the morality of an action. This is especially prominent in utilitarianism, where the impartial observer is expected to weigh the consequences of actions for all involved.

The Ethical Role of Observation: In moral psychology, the idea of being observed often influences behavior. The panopticon, as discussed by Michel Foucault, illustrates how the possibility of being observed can encourage conformity and self-regulation in ethical and social contexts.

7. Observer in Eastern Philosophy

Buddhism: In Buddhist philosophy, the observer (or the self) is seen as a transient construct rather than an enduring entity. The concept of no-self (anatta) suggests that the idea of a permanent observer or self is illusory. Observation, in this view, is part of the ongoing process of change and interdependence, with no fixed "observer" apart from the flow of experience.

Non-Duality: In Eastern philosophies like Advaita Vedanta, the observer is not seen as separate from the observed. The subject-object distinction is considered illusory, with the realization that there is no fundamental separation between the observer and the world leading to enlightenment or ultimate knowledge.

8. The Observer in Postmodernism

Relativity of Perspectives: Postmodernism, particularly through thinkers like Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida, challenges the idea of a neutral or objective observer. Instead, they argue that observation is influenced by cultural, social, and linguistic structures, meaning there is no single, privileged point of view.

Power and Observation: Foucault argued that observation is a tool of power, as those who observe hold control over those being observed. He examined how institutions, such as prisons and hospitals, use observation as a means of social regulation and discipline.

9. The Observer in Art and Aesthetics

Aesthetic Experience: The role of the observer is also critical in the philosophy of art and aesthetics. The observer’s interpretation, perspective, and emotional response to a work of art can shape its meaning. The idea that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" reflects the subjective nature of aesthetic judgment.

Phenomenology of Art: In the phenomenology of art, the observer's engagement with the artwork is considered an integral part of the aesthetic experience. The meaning of the artwork is not fixed but emerges through the observer’s interaction with it.

The philosophy of the observer addresses the fundamental role observation plays in shaping reality, knowledge, and personal experience. From quantum mechanics and metaphysics to ethics and existentialism, the observer is often seen as a critical factor that influences the nature of reality, perception, and even morality. The relationship between the observer and the observed challenges our understanding of objectivity, subjectivity, and the nature of existence itself.

[skyebeaking]

Aftershocks

I was not there when he fought in the war

but I watch the war he fights now,

the battle raging on in the

space between his temples

where images replay

over and over and over again.

I watch his eyes flutter

close then open hard, steeled

as though he must not let the dropping bodies

distract him from his mission. I am mesmerized.

His left arm is missing from the elbow down.

When he returned, he would only apologize

to me because that was the hand I held,

the arm he used to tug me closer beneath the sheets

holding me through my own sadness

but now he cannot even remember

where he lost it. I tell him,

It’s okay.

Now, he refuses to stand on my right side.

He used to always gaze at me with steady eyes,

laughing through a lopsided grin pressed against my lips,

he carried us both above water.

Now, he is drowning.

Now he is weighed down by a boulder,

pushed too deep into the covers where he cannot breath,

staring at the pillows piled beneath my head,

instead of us.

But it was easier to love us then.

Sometimes he looks at me with so much hate

and envy and bitterness and disgust;

sometimes it’s pity.

And I don’t know which is harder to swallow.

On those days, he will only answer to

Captain Sullivan, sir!

Sometimes, he whispers when he thinks

I will not hear. They are orders he practises

with perfect diction and

clipped authority because he was in command,

leading troops to a tower of termination,

taking lives like it’s nothing.

I listen quietly and wait until

I get permission to speak.

Sir, yes, sir...

He hits me sometimes

in his sleep, when he has no control

over the screams whizzing past his ear at oh three hundred

and I’m struggling to soothe the voices I can’t hear.

But if you go near his phantom limb he swings

wildly, punching and kicking,

desperately in a rage

dying to live for us both.

When people ask how I keep getting

split lips and black eyes, I reply,

It was an accident.

And I know how that sounds.

His family has lost hope in his recovery.

Their judgment weighs down on the bones

jutting awkwardly out his shoulders

and he retreats into solitude for two weeks

and refuses to eat.

He will not sleep in the same bed as me for ten days.

When I notice another delirium settling in the bags

under his eyes I guilt him back to me and lay him down.

He cries apologies when he thinks I am sleeping.

He does not understand why

I refuse to kick out the ghost that lies between us,

pushing us further apart, kicking at my sides

till I fall off and meet a reaper from his past.

I cannot understand his need to invite guilt to bed.

Because I was not there when he fought in the war.

But I watch the one he fights now.

I will march alongside his guilt and help carry the weight

of his pain, and my own, because he is not weak.

He is not broken, he is hurting and he is tired

from fighting for so long in a war he did not create

so I will stand on the left side

with my fist curled where his should be

and I will stand beside him when they call him

Lucky.

[skyebeaking]

The Truth About Lonely

Walking home in the cold, I stare at the hands of my friends

held tight and spreading warmth while I tuck my hands in empty pockets.

I am lonely and every part of my body feels the lack.

Under a jacket, my too thin t-shirt smacking against rough skin.

Wet stinging eyes, bloodshot and staring straight,

sweat beading down and freezing on cheeks.

My bitten to the quick fingernails dig into palms

while my lips are pounding pain, clenched tight between teeth.

A major artery is pumping apathy and adrenaline.

I do not blame lovers for the loneliness I feel.

I blame myself for feeling lonely.

[skyebeaking]

The Truth About Lonely

Too thin t-shirt

smacking against

rough skin

Wet stinging eyes

bloodshot

and staring

straight, sweat

beading down and

freezing on

cheeks, bitten

to the quick

fingernails

dig into

palms; lips

pounding pain,

clenched tight

between

teeth. A

major

artery pumping

apathy

and

adrenaline.

I do not blame lovers

for the loneliness

I feel.

I blame myself

for feeling

lonely.

[skyebeaking]

When They Call Me: A Villanelle

Long ago, they let him call me a bitch.

I was too young to know what it meant

and too naive to know when to use a shield

against life. So I laid down and let it wound me.

I came home crying in a newly-founded rage

until I understood how to blow out the fire.

Years later, I would burst into a fierce fire

because a young man had called me “bitch”.

And I was older but still too naive to cool the rage

so I spit cinder and ash because I knew what it meant

and I knew he meant to hurt and belittle me.

But weren’t there still too many cracks in my sheild?

Soon enough, my cracks would close and a fine shield

made of experience melted over a passionate fire,

would protect and cover and strengthen the weaker me.

Standing on the peak of piled bodies, they called me a bitch

because I would not bow. And I knew what that meant.

It meant that I would not be affected by their rage.

But it truly is a strange thing, that double-sided rage;

it didn’t take long to burn and melt my once-shining shield.

I soon learned why it burned to put my hand in a fire.

But, unlike the majority, I wasn’t a little bitch

and nothing like this could permanently stop me.

I am invincible, immortal, and they can call to me,

screaming, as I let loose my all consuming rage

down upon the cities they build. I am a bitch

and a whore and immoral and there is no shield

to protect anyone from the force of this purifying fire.

And I will laugh when they explain what they “meant”.

And they will know exactly what it meant

as I explain through the smiling god that loved me.

This smiling god that has bathed me in fire,

this smiling god that soothes my hungry rage,

this god that stripped me of my useless shield.

The same fucking god that called me “Bitch”.

[skyebeaking]

A Bad Friend

“This is my friend”

and I smile.

 Thank you for allowing me

the pleasure of your company

and the title to prove

that you enjoy mine.

But I can’t, not anymore.

This isn’t love anymore.

This is a knife,

sharpened on laughs, inside jokes

and secrets shared at 3 AM.

This is a cutting board

shaped into the form

of my back,

colored and dyed

in the songs we wrote for each other

while driving home from

another late night out.

“You support me,

no matter what happens.”

and I smile.

Thank you for holding me up

and balancing my needs

on material gifts

and trips to your hometown.

But you can’t, not anymore.

This isn’t fair anymore.

This is the wetness of my shoulders,

the tissue boxes I collect for you

because my back is strong.

This is the scent of cigarettes

on my lips because,

in this very moment,

I wouldn’t mind trading

a few minutes of pleasure now

for a year of pain later.

I promise, we can both be suicidal.

So please, let me carry your pain

as well as mine own

and smile.

(And I will take payment in the form of

snacks and cheap necklaces from Walmart

and cry alone in the sleeve

of the sweater you bought me.)

“I don’t want to think of

how much I spent on you.”

And I don’t want to think of the

time I spent on you

instead of caring for my own needs.

I stayed by your side

to bandage your wounds

instead of hiding away

to lick my own.

“I thought you were more mature than that.”

And I thought you would trust me

more than that

instead of cornering me

between the arms of twisted words

and text messages saved

like evidence to a murder.

My heart is on trial and my loyalty

has been denied as a witness.

Where are the blood-stained shirt sleeves?

after I put your fear through a gentle cycle

cleaning up your crime scene,

I can only be judged as an accessory

to the murder of a friendship,

two years in the making.

And I think of times

where I’ve steered you away

from guys stalking towards you,

allured by the scent of alcohol

on underaged lips.

And I think of times

I’ve carried you home,

slung over my shoulders,

erasing the marks

of possession and obsession

from your wrists.

And I smile

because that’s the only thing I can do

when She calls me

“an understanding person”

and He tells me

“you deserve to be loved”

and You ask me

“Why are you so needy?”

because I just feel like

a bad friend.

[skyebeaking]

Demands

My aesthetic is the way your body lays on top of my own,

the way you grip your hands in my hair demanding

we move at a teasing pace, cherishing the forethought and build up,

pressing me down into the bed with just the weight of your being,

the way you try not to crush me, and nonchalantly

brace back against my arms pulling you closer, burying you deeper.

I belong to you.

I fell in love with the way my breasts reform,

held against the solidity of your chest,

the way my skin adjusts to fit perfectly beneath you,

the way your fingertips barely trace over me,

sending heated chills down my spine where you lay your palm

desperately holding my body against you,

burning a roadmap of us with your body heat alone

as if you could sear yourself into the marrow of my bones.

I want you.

I was filled with the way our breaths intermingled

and I could taste your sweat on my lips

when you kissed me quiet and the way you firmly hold my arms

above me where I can’t dig my nails jaggedly,

lovingly down your spine, your nose buried in the hollows

above my collarbone where you indulge yourself in the scent

of our bodies mixing and shuddering out my name

in foreign languages only I understand.

I need you.

When your skin brushes desperately against my own

and the heat juxtaposed against the chills

where my body lays uncovered and bared to the world,

I sing your praise like an animal trapped in the best of ways,

begging you not to stop. I cried, demanding more of the love

you clawed down my sides and lower past the curvature of my hips,

gripping at the cotton pleading for more of the scorching heat

from your gentle kisses just to be rewarded with your teeth,

commanding my attention and earning my claws biting down

into the skin of your shoulders, marking you with my devotion.

I will take all of you.

I craved the way you hold your hand just under my jaw

in the crook of my neck with steady fingers holding my head still,

grounding me at the edge of you and oxygen.

Cause when our eyes meet for even the briefest of moments

my lungs develop amnesia and you look so desperate and so vulnerable

and so scared and I live for this power to make you melt.

My aesthetic is the way you stretch my body around you,

demanding access to everything I am with willingness and enthusiasm

but look at me as if you’re worshipping god.

You belong to me.

[skyebeaking]

To Me, She Is

If I am fire, she is gasoline.

She blows into the cinders of an

unmanifested energy

and watches, quiet, as her love expands

that flicker lighted being.

She fans the flames as it awakens

and smiles wide

as it begins to take sparking steps.

It breathes in her force

and she shakes her head when it calls her

“Mother?”

Growing and hungrily sucking in her

faith, it opens it’s eyes and

I am alive.

She is Prometheus.

Sometimes, when life blows me out to smoke,

forces the air out my lungs I cannot

“Breathe…”

She whispers into the heat of my heart-

I want to breathe and she is pure oxygen.

But she is not my Mother.

Like a tree, she has grown under my love

and supplies me with embers.

She blooms under my care

and I am given purpose.

She is a plant.

I am the sun burning buildings

and drying seas, bearing life

in the warmth of my rays.

She is a match and I light the way.

I am Fire, raging into the night, invincibile.

I am capable of destroying homes

and creating islands.

I am a god.

She is the Cult of Ra.

I give light, life, lessons, love.

I have lived thousands of lives,

immortal and sentient.

I am passion blazing over the weak,

warming their writhing bodies

while scarring those who stand too tall.

This is what I am and she

understands I must burn,

passionate and bright.

If I am fire, she is

@candlelight-stars

[skyebeaking]

My Father, King of the Sea

I was raised by my dad.

The man who held together opposing tides and overcame currants beating against his back

as if saying “You can’t swim here.”

But he know how to float.

He knows how to lay strong as a plank against tidal waves of family circumstances and not be swept in by the salt soaked sea.

I was raised by my dad who believes that time is so precious. A small favor amidst all the otherness that we soak in, a shell found among ocean litter, a pearl amist sand.

When the sun rises, it is time to work, to clean, to prepare for the battles that lay ahead to raise the mainsail and go with the flow without losing yourself to the tide.

I was raised by my dad who told me that if I wanted to be a singer or a songwriter or a superstar, he’s manage me and would be the first mate of my little raft.

He didn’t realize but at the time I was sinking and he threw out a life preserver in his words and in his hugs and in his arms that are large from carrying burdens and trophies.

And the late night chats as I lay my head down and we watch movies, I get a chance to breathe again. My dad is a salty sea breeze on a hot day.

I may not come from his oceans or his islands, but I have been carried here on seafoam, like a lost woman at sea finally finding home.

To be a father is easy. To raise entire waterbeds and feeding the life that resides there is something only a king could do willingly. I was raised by a master of the sea.

[skyebeaking]

My Mother’s Daughter

Sometimes I forget that

I am my mother’s daughter

because my mom cradles mountains

in her arms and feathers in her hair,

each one woven around,

tracing out her crown and halo.

But I can only stare in wonder and awe

because this is someone who

I can only follow in strides.

I’ve learned that my mother is

a lover and a fighter but if you

see her running, don’t ask what’s behind her,

just follow her lead.

She travels through time and space,

from past to present, gravity dragging her

brow lower for fear of her children,

watching us take up space on our own planets

and praying we don’t implode.

She only wishes we would leave

a little moon for her sketched

on a scrap of paper.

But my mother’s a dictionary of

understanding and empathy.

Sometimes, she’ll flip through the pages

of her life and reads me definitions of victories

and hardships that she’s learned over time.

And she’s learned how to build life

out of oxygen and missteps and

my brother’s and I never think about

how late she stayed up,

building our dreams and planning out each day

on blueprints so we never missed a moment.

My mother is a past I have to improve on

and progress I continue,

she’s a mountain to climb over

and a challenge to confront.

But my mother loves the color pink.

It’s the color I associate with long talks during

car rides and the smell of her hair.

The pink of her womb matches the pink

of my blood, lightened from red to soothe me

into giggles cause my mother hates it when I cry.

And sometimes when I’m home,

I see myself painted in shades of my mother.

Some of the best parts dyed

in stubbornness and compassion,

my mother’s heart bleeds through paper

and has carried through her ink veins to mine.

And I take pages from her sketchbook

to enrich my own but sometimes I forget that

I am my mother’s daughter and

one day I’ll amble in her footsteps

and be a mother too.

[skyebeaking]

Everyone and Myself (No One and I Series: Part 3/3)

At the party, I’m laughing because

nothing seems funnier

than the blood dripping from my ears as I

take another shot. I will stay up till

5 am with my head between my knees and sand in my lungs

and I will still be laughing, my hysterics rising

higher than the smoke from the fog machine and

burning blunts at this party.

For now, I am pressed full body

against a stranger, who is not picky enough to realize

we both might be too drunk to disgust ourselves better.

I am pushing myself underneath everyone.

Feigning love under the string of my panties

dropping harder than the bass,

while hopefully inspiring this beast to

lick its wound clean before rubbing up against me.

There is too little blood to actually use as lubricant.

I am frustrated with the silence of my

self-being that fears no pill or tablet but still

retches up vomit

like it actually wants to live.

My throne is the shape of a porcelain bowl,

wet with my blood, tears and digested pills

but still cools my forehead to the touch.

This is a beast that refuses to

understand or compete fairly.

It is too late to climb mountains or catch STDs

but hey, if everyone won’t keep ignoring me

I may be able to open up my t

highs enough to rip out pink muscle and

fat hidden beneath layers of dark skin so the

kids have something to chew on.

I won’t apologize for following the crowd if

everyone else does the same.

This is a life that infects unwanted children with

forced birth and not enough sex.

But the lips of my vagina kiss sweeter than god

and if the guys staring at my chest can get past my

attitude, we may be able to try

the sweat we’ve accumulated in red solo cups.

Maybe everyone doesn’t know it but

we’ve been trying to love each other all night.

[skyebeaking]

But You Carried Me Out

You carried me out, up and up and up. We flew to the creek, so late at night. You set me down by the edge and I dipped my feet in the low rushing water. You say, “I didn’t come in time.” And I do not correct you. 

There is blood in the water.

[skyebeaking]

The Universe is under no obligation to make sense to you

Neil DeGrasse Tyson 

[skyebeaking]

No One and I  (No One and I Series: Part 2/3)

I lay nested in blankets and

pillows gathered high around

me, a cocoon to trap in my misery

to keep me company because

only no one is left.

I watch, against the darkness,

the wall next to my bed and

I imagine a face unlike my own.

I get no other interactions besides no one.

So I will my mind to ignore the

emptiness while trying to fill it with

the forgotten image of an imaginary friend.

Then I cast off a layer of clothing, it is

hot but too wet to be cold, the

sticky tears of my cheeks gum my

face to the mattress while my pillows lay on top.

No one likes to hold me in bed

but the carbon dioxide makes it hard to breathe.

I try to smother myself and realize,

broken-hearted, that one can still breathe through

a pillow, no matter how hard I press,

the weight of my solitude isn’t heavy enough.

But there is a weight settled in my chest

and an emptiness in my stomach and

I hate myself for not knowing how to

care about myself but anyone.

I close my eyes and imagine someone

scaling over this mountain

and crossing into the cavern to feed me and

hold me as I nibble pathetically on beef jerky and

swallow down warm soup.

No one watches as I cry when I realize

that this may be too much to ask of no one.

While anyone leaves the door closed so that my

whimpers are muffled, everyone hears nothing

and assume I’m just sleeping but

I am not sleeping.

I cannot breathe deeply enough to pretend.

I cry gross tears and snot and resist the urge to

wipe my face because I am ugly and I am too loud.

But only no one hears

and we’ve been friends since last night.

[skyebeaking]

Anyone and Me (No One and I Series: Part 1/3)

I am at my desk and I need a drink.

Something to depress my insides that

vibrate like aggravated fireflies.

This is far too bright to settle itself yet

too small to let be so I need a sip of

vodka and a wash of whiskey because

there are very few things that

actually deflate my ego.

I inhale cigarettes by the open

window, staring dead-eyed at the roof

next door where snow has melted into

pools and hopefully it's cold today.

Oxygen never seems to burn enough for

me when it’s warm. When no one asks why

I seem so sick and anyone replies that

I hate and I fuck, I will have to interrupt and

explain that my body stays empty otherwise.

Everyone asks my preference on strangers and

immediately I imagine that I get a choice

instead of settling my head on a wooden desk that

sits sturdy as if it could do

anything else but break.

But I am so greedy, I take whatever piece of

mind I find and hope for the worst.

That’s the only thing I get in

a room where only no one

and I are left alone.

Amazing how anyone can be so

desperate for water yet not understand that

a single teaspoon can drown me.

I take a sip of tea instead and

realize that maybe anyone doesn’t care about me.

My chair tilts back and I watch as

the world revolves around me.

The door is open but only no one steps in.

Anyone has given up on my

being anything but this.

I think it’s time to give up on the thought that

everyone will smell the

rotting bodies of these fireflies

inside me burning.

Because anyone hates me

and we’ve learned over time to just accept that.