the feeling doesn’t overwhelm you now, but it comes in small crippling waves and seeps through like you are transparent. spit it out in letters, get rid of it before it pools in your stomach, rises through your throat and bursts through closed eyelids. caged by yourself, you can easily squeeze through the spaced bars but something keeps you chained up here, and you stay. you watch as the world whizzes by, numbers tick and leaves fall, but nothing changes, not you. the ceiling fan still makes the same noise and keeps you company. you hate it, this feeling of being left behind in dust, like a forgotten antique left unsettled in the corner of an attic. everything starts to blend in and you dislike feeling like you’re stuck in limbo, the idea of in between frustrates you to no end. but in the end if they ask you’ll say you don’t get it either, because that’s always an easier answer and perhaps they never wanted to know in the first place either.
it’s always better to assume the worst, not because you don’t trust others but because you don’t trust yourself, because disappointment comes with high hopes and how many times have you fallen from the stars, my dear child?