I have spent my whole life searching for something that doesn't exist. My world revolves around ideals that no one fits.

I am fragile. Ants crawl beneath my skin. I try to dig the poisonous beasts out but i can never make incisions deep enough.

i'm not okay. my breath fogs up the windows of the train that should travel to my home but somehow never stops. my home is nowhere. i am no one.

perhaps the universe is a lie and we are all but ideas in the mind of the greatest author in the world. they write me as complex — unreadable; depressive, yet inspired; suicidal, yet alive. i do not like the author of my story, for they cause me pain.