vapour streetlights bring yellow to the mattress in front of me,
translating cold and hard,
…not feeling my pain,
…not understanding my confusion,
…not helping (…as I somehow wished it would).
I ask where are the demons that that have bought me to
but I only know I needed an out,
and that they are not here to talk to,
...and now that I am here, I feel no desire to chase them down.
I am as walking towards a precipice without seeing,
cutting flesh without feeling,
the hurt instead suspended around me in heavy slow motion,
seeping, dripping, from the dirty walls of the room around me.
I am playing a refugee,
from society, and from life,
from overpowering, suffocating, normalcy.
Brushing against a world with real problems,
I rightly feel an imposter,
but an imposter as yet still struggling,