Shell

Even though my marks don't define who I am, I feel lazy and defeated. 

I am only human, but I feel as though I burn and marr every relationship I'm in.

Toxic people weaving their way back into my life is leaving me feel rather liminal in a time such as this. 

Call me vampiric, for I am nothing but a pale creature of the night that feeds on others, yet I can be warm, loving and thoughful. Maybe my heart does beat through my chest with the fire and passion of the living. 

I feel a breaking, a cracking of the closeness that I had forged in the fires of those early years. Neither of us know who we are, so dynamically changed and the separation anxiety has lulled away until it is nothing, and we mean nothing. 

Your eyeliner still stains my mind, and I almost feel as though your ghost haunts me when I think of what we used to be. 

Soul family; you and I, but even family can drift apart. 

Kilometers meant nothing as I took that train to see you, and I felt free yet claustrophobic as I gazed at the city whose seraph-like eyes penetrated my being before it chewed me up and spat me out once more. I wasn't worthy of breathing in a space that called for the wild spirits that Kerouac would've smoked with; for I am still a terrified lambkin with a soul and lungs of pure white. 

Trembling, I type this. I cannot tell if it is an ode to myself or an ode to the past, because I've grown so much, closer to some people and further from others and I'm not sure where my place in this burning world is. 

I cannot help but feel like a parasite, that I will continue to fester and ache until I eventually kill my host. That being said, I also feel like I am my own host. 

Who knows how this will end? The one thing I know is that it will not be pretty.