Sight

In current sight, there are three cats; no, four, he's in the shadows.

A case of makeup, a lovely quilt. A window to chilly spring.

Ah, but there is also burbling, constant anxiety, swimming in my stomach. 

Heard, not seen. But can't you see it on my pallid face? 


Longsighted, there is traffic and unpleasant solitude. A wrestling match with dread while trying to keep pace. 

Fear and apathy and walking into my disappointments. A little fish tank reflects my face that's screaming the what-ifs. 

I became the teen from the books I read, pathetic at this age.

I feel bad. It's not hard. It's the best I've had, but God damn it, I don't want it! 


In hindsight, did I have this coming?

For we can never really shed our white trash beginning, no matter how hard it's repressed. 

I have tried!

What do I have but pickle jars and thrifted clothes? 


Insight. Let's not go there; in. 

Introverted. In my head. In fear. In case. Inside. In denial. 

In a loop of panic and shame spirals. Intrusive thoughts. Insane.

In regret. 


Foresight? Why bother? Why bother with any of this at all? 

Where is any of this going? Any of us? 

It feels like it's accelerating to bombsights from unchecked dictators. 

The only sight? It's just white clouds. 



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