I am a ghost.
I drift alone.
So alone.
I never talk or laugh or know how to do either one.
Will you wash the dirt from my hair and dress me and hold my hand.
I cannot hear or see or feel colours anymore.
My father says I stare a lot- 'those muddy brown puddle eyes'- he likes to say.
Can you fathom how truly unhappy I am.
My sadness is a monster that sleeps in my bed.
It pulls out my hair and rips my limbs apart and then it eats my brain for dessert.
I am a hollow vessel.
I am an addict.
I am completely mad and I never wear socks that match.
I am 1000 different people.
I am no-one.
I will never be affiliated with other galaxies.
I am an un-opened book left for mould.