cold air itches at my skin,
i play indie music through my headphones
until they drown everything out
and i can only hear the gentle rhythm
downstairs, they watch tv.
i know this because i can hear the sounds,
the music and voices of a movie
that i was not invited to.
on the phone with the Air Queen,
i was left by myself and ignored.
i blink back a curious sense of neglect,
a sinking loneliness that i am unfamiliar with,
and all i can think to myself is,
"This cannot be all there is."
my mother once told me,
when i was small and vulnerable,
"People will eventually stop trying."
she planted seeds of self-doubt in my young mind,
and i don't know what she must have been thinking
to tell that to a child - that they weren't worth the effort.
yet here i sit,
cold and shivering but unwilling to close the window,
shoulders bowed and head bent,
trying to connect back to the writing moods i get,
where the words seem to flow in my veins,
and i feel like i would bleed stanzas.
but i do not - i feel as though i am
making this rough and uneven and amateur.
but this bone-deep sense of sadness
has yet to leave me.