Cold and unfamiliar in my own skin,

Comfort is a luxury,

Time is scarce,

Friends are self-consumed.

Childish quarrels fly past the ear,

Igniting a cataclysmic flame.

Sleep is the demon, the cancer

That eats through my core,

And threatens to take me down.

Trusted ones are blind,

Offering hollow encouragements,

Regarding me as though I weren’t there,

Unimportant compared to their whims.

Audacious enough to request my advice,

On problems already solved,

I refuse to offer wisdom, my heartspeak

To vain, undeserving ears.

The future, an ominous cloud,

Anxieties about deadlines,

The impending doom of growing up,

Responsibilities weighing heavy,

As though the world settles on my chest,

Dragging along their problems,

And stringing along my promises.

Inquiries about my life,

The object of my affection,

The events in recent weeks,

Plans for times to come,

As if it was all I did.

Perturbed answers only raise more questions,

The only truth to give,

“I am not you.”

This expression my only solace,

This time the last to spare,

This silence interrupted by them,

The rest of the world.