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Perhaps I've been living a crafted life whose faults have yet to resurface —from the crevices of my heart or through the fractures of my soul— perhaps I've been living a blissful life with no sorrow but with a clock whose hands are running backwards until it stops
Perhaps I've been eating salted crisps whose crunch have not yet faded —from the brittle break or through the flaky ashes of my soul— perhaps I've been eating endless thorns and salt with a hunger for the dark and obsolete things
It has come to light now that perhaps, all this time, I've been dying of an illness whose existence is but a figment of people's avoidance of the truth —from the harsh desert burning through my own distant and arid plains— perhaps I've been dying of a thousand curses from people whom I reminded of the things they're running away from with often no pause but with an unkind tongue to claw them back from the void they crawled away from
I get now why I don't belong —not anymore than I thought— perhaps it's because I've driven people out with the truth they can't handle to hear that I've lived with for a long time that they became ordinary
I got used to being left alone and not belonging that perhaps, that's meant to be the life I have to be living
