I can’t hear anything
except my own ennui.
Can I just mute reality?
Sing in my head
or maybe scream out loud.
Maybe that will shut it all down;
the sound
of other people’s stark,
meaningless existence
reminds me of my own.
I keep a white rose in my hand,
out of screen sight;
something more real.
The soft petals
enfold over each other to
infinity.
Better than spiking my arm with
green thorns;
scarring my skin
to know I’m still awake,
I’m still me, I’m still real
I think.
Or I look at pictures of you
to soothe my soul,
imagine your touch too.
You think you’re too wild for me,
but one thing you never make me feel is ennui