I can be found pasted to the laminate living room floor,
Stuffing the toy animals down into the basket.
The moon will join me,
And the minutes on the clock will scramble away, afraid of my intensity.
Feverish and desperate,
I'm reading their expressions,
Begging them for answers.
They may seem silent,
But they speak to me.
They warn me of my impermanence;
My innate wrongness.
My whispered apologies, sharp with tears, hang in the air.
I'm swallowed by the silence of a house, stilled by the early morning hours.
When I finally give up,
I lay my head down on the floor,
The toy audience watches as I crumble,
Mocked by their uncertainty.