J

This aint ready yet... Go back home.

I keep wondering why am I even trying. Why do I pretend like I'm something cool. I'm stuck, I'm slowly rotting, and my mind with it. Its been ages since I knew what I wanted, I screamed and screamed but none heard me. None found me.
And on top of it all, all my lines start with "I'm". I am I am I am. But what even am I?
Human? Alien? Ghost? Mirror? Maybe not even a spec of stardust is left in me, while all the others have so much shimmering dust in them. Perhaps a fool?
None found me. And that was by a maddening design, I tell myself, I tell myself as I keep walking, slumping, forward. Walking flowing with the drizzle, I always told myself that I wasn't made of sugar, I'd not melt in the rain. But to my surprise, it was not the water which melted me, but the ever present feeling of stillness in my bones.
In truth, I keep trying, keep running, keep walking, keep crawling, and even clawing my way forward and sideways, because its all I have known. In truth, I have always felt it, the feeling of having no home, as if I wasn't meant to be here, like I was an afterthought in the rooms and corners of that house. I always knew that all I was, was but a frame which they hung on the walls, placing pretty pictures they wanted and hoped I'd not become crooked. And that's why, I recon, I've become like so, feeling so far from human, so alien, so reflective, so non-existent. A pointless self-sabotage I recon. Could be worse, maybe, I could be lying even. Well, nothing ever comes from screaming to the void, now does it? But I do feel better, through all the rot and mold, it turns out that I was not a picture frame, but a being made from vulgarity of dead stars and space, I too, wish to be blood.And someday, I too will feel as this was meant to be for me.