Despite my movement, I’m not sure of my direction. Despite your touch, I’m not sure I can call this affection. Despite my loneliness I wouldn’t call myself isolated. Despite my direction, I wouldn’t consider my life fully navigated. Similar songs have been sung, similar fables have been told. Stories overfed and easily abused, like a dog eating from a fish bowl

Spilling the blood on my toes from my soul onto a pad, periodically giving the things that spill from under my sole and stepping on them as if they bothered me just a tad. Despite my isolation, I’m never cold. Even though that’s the 33rd time I’ve said that and upon claiming it, my opinion turned into mold