Happiness looks like
floating, and
quiet whispers of ill-fitted fabric
stitched as heavy drapery around a body.
Solitude looks like
sordid nights of crumbs and
guilt-stained pillows
or
brittled bones and
quaking fingertips.
Sadness looks like
months of gray static
forever lost in a perpetual storm.
So I breathe in the reality
and I breathe out the self-fabricated lies.
