they ask me,

why do they look at

us like that? and I can’t

quite explain. at least not

in a way that makes sense,

because they don’t

know yet why other

people struggle to process the

grandness of the universe,

yet the narrowness of

the human mind. because

where there are flowers

we see death, and where

there is death we see God.

I have never ended a sentence—

all I know are commas, and

continuation. because

where there is poetry, there

is no end. in a million years,

even if everything is gone,

I know there

must be something out there,

as small as a pebble floating

through the vastness of space.

I know there is poetry.

we don’t

need definitions. explanations

mean nothing when

there is nothing to be explained.

I am insufferable when it

comes to these things.

questions like: what do

you want to do? who do

you want to be?

from the day I was born,

I was someone I never

chose. I was thrust into

expectations, laws,

rules I never read. and

I am never enough, despite

my constant attempts to

be more. where there is

color, we draw void.

where there is noise,

I draw

silence—and something

to go with it.

I am deranged. there are

voices I don’t know, coming

from mouths that

don’t exist. I am whispering

prophecies into an empty

book. I am fighting a secret

war. something has to make

sense. something has to add

up in the end—but there is

no end. and the numbers go on,

the days go on, the words

go on, the voices—they morph,

and they tear into my skin

and kiss all the soft

places. that is us.

I am neither singular

nor whole. there are so many.

and they’re telling us

we’re bad. we’re fools—

we’ve always been.

we look into their eyes

with quiet dread.

in them, we can see

prayers. we can see

disgust. shhhhh.

they’re praying for us.