In a corner,
I’d like to take up the least space possible.
I’d disappear if I could:
turn my skin the color of paint
sink backwards into plaster
mimic shadows over my face.
There are days I wish I didn’t have a voice
and a conscience
to be responsible for
voices in my head that I can’t ignore for too long.
There are days I stare in the mirror
for hours
asking myself
Why it hurts so much to be human.
We must have been made for more
than pain.
Knives in the Nightclub 