My hands digging trenches after they failed
at pointing my features inward to protect me from affection,
my words tilted on their axes of truth
and lies faded into grey areas, and some sort of vague
feeling
but the only thing in all those flickers
of falsities and fright and fantasy, the only thing
between the fault lines, the pale on pale,
was the certain distinction of a not vague
feeling
a feeling I could be sure of
but now nothing is certain
not even the following seconds are certain
no one to love me, I'm certain
so how can I be certain
that I am not just a prefabrication, an illusory depiction
of a girl someone once loved, a desperate piece of fiction.
