tell me do you think we'll be fine after all

the blank page haunts me.

it is a spectre,
it is a ghost. 

i am not
floating,
suspended in reality. 

my time passes like a 
cat on drugs being chased by
a balloon - it practically flies. 

an hour is a minute, 
a day's a week. 

half-finished stories,
one-shots, trickshots, 
a laughing matter. 
lesbian stories where 
everyone's ace because
oh hey, nobody in my books 
ever is anything but straight.

so i'm trying to 
not use the heteronormative,
gender binary here,
this is a safe haven for me. 

i am my stories' creator, 
i am nothing without my words.

so i'll drown out the world in 
Motion City Soundtrack,
Twenty One Pilots, 
singing along to Pumped Up Kicks,
my music is all i have

yeah, nobody's going to be
hearing Come On Eileen 
blasting from my room anytime soon,
i'm not going to let them see me.

so i stare at the list of drafts
that just gets longer the more
i stare at it, i'm trying to understand
why i suddenly can't write
Auguste and whatser-name anymore

because i'm leaving them with issues,
bookstores and Norse völvas
writing notes to myself in Old Norse runes,
because that way i can stick Post-Its to my wall
with the assurance of others 
never being able to read them. 

i don't understand
why i can't get started on the
zombie short-story
i've been meaning to do for a while,
my fingers pound out Aria and Margo
when i'm trying to write Andrea and Lucy,

i've got one foot out the car
and another on the brake,
how do i pick up all these
loose ends, tripping me up
every time i try to write a poem?

i do not know.
i do not know why i 
type out these lifestories
and then leave them suspended,
floating in stasis,
because only i can continue
their course of life.

hell, i don't even know why i 
don't just kill the whole lot off.
a car crash, bad fall down stairs,
convenient slip onto a knife. 

well, i know why. 
they're a part of me. 

even i don't know how 
their stories quite end. 
and i need to find out. 

The End

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