...

Of all the ghosts I think I'm most alone. I'm ravenous for someone else's breath. My best friend thinks of her easy beauties, “Whatever, I fake it well.” It 's easier to believe her a liar. When I smile don't take it personally, I like the taste of my cracking lips for their ever pulling apart. Watching from afar my failing sight I can never stave off the cruel laughter, most loyal a mockery of hope spilling out my own mouth. I tell myself that there are things I need so as to give the waiting a purpose. Whatever, I'm good at faking it. My very faith makes me a liar, but how could I cry with what I know? If I weren't here alone before I am now. I whisper it to fall from my sleeplessness, sometimes, and it's still alright.