I sit still in stark silence and begin to
wonder if it is the night or the morning
that I’ve grown more weary to,
I suppose it doesn’t matter.

Dusk and dawn still linger amongst
the silence of a mortuary,
an isolated tomb of could’ve, would’ve,
the steady clicks of ventilation and distant
echoes from the past have become the
only solace that lasts.

At first they frightened me.
My head would whip around to face the
emptiness, my fingers would snake around
the base of a drink – caffeine, not ethanol.
I am not used to my own thoughts.

They say to find comfort in a friend but
I don’t believe either word exists,
least not in this version of the world.
I’ve still scars from past mistakes and trust
only ever leads to the dull end of a blade.
I’ve seen their intentions, you see,
I see them before they see me.

It keeps whistling from around the bend,
those vents click a hymn to the wiser,
I cannot blend because I cannot pretend,
but by god I cannot be my only friend.

– B.