Soft-Spoken

I.

I feel small sometimes,

like the gaps between my ribs are larer than I.

I feel lonely occasionally;

you were the first to call me beautiful,

and while staring at the sky, I was inclined to agree, although I'm not sure why.

I feel devoid of meaning often;

you hollowed me out.

Molecules vibrating meaninglessly, to be recylced into stardust once more.

II.

I am now filled with rose water,  and cigarette ash.

I feel angry frequently.

If I stare hard enough into the holes on the door,

I can travel backwards and see glimpses of you through them.

I feel unworthy when you speak to me.

I will never understand what it is to be you,

never find the strength to stand like you.

III.

I breathe deeply,

and when my rib cage expands I realize I can as well.

I ride the subway without headphones on;

there is eternity in the quiet individual,

in the names, dates and dirty words etched into the concrete walls.

I read a lot,

and wonder which star I came from, what my atoms will help assemble next.

IV.

We sloppily plastered over the doors;

they don't look any prettier, but they're easier to walk past when the house is empty.

I cry for you,

and I understand why you are proud to suffer.

I will never stand like you,

but I will stand with you.