the moments behind closed doors
when the screaming is muffled
and the bodies are gone
those prying bodies
kneading my mind with their hands
when one is really one
and plural doesn't exist
I'm happiest
when sounds are made from one source
easily distinguished
when causes are known and witnessed
when skys are numbed and blistered
overcast by windowshades
lamps dimly lit and shadows misconstrued
lonely is such a misnomer
such a crooked connotation
to moments in time where thoughts are actually born
instead of regurgitated
when selves are found
instead of identified, filed, and packed into a drawer
alone im cured