What else is there to know, or say?
What else could I possibly mumble or spit into this void that I haven’t already screamed so many times in the past?
How else do I word that I’m a failure, an inadequacy in this life, a speck of a mistake tainting this world.
How else do I tell my loved ones that I yearn to leave, and that I dream about not belonging here?
“I didn’t think I’d make it this far,” I say
“But you did! You’ve accomplished so much,” they reply
“I meant my age, not my achievements,” I think but I never say.
Heart on a Canvas 