Sand.

Can I have a time machine?
Must everything that's good enough slip through my fingers
like grains of sand
and leave me hopeless and dreamless and

empty

even though no one understands?
I've got plenty left, they say
but who am I?
Who am I to use this ghost girl's dreams
when I have none of my own?

She's dead now. Murdered.
That's why she's a ghost.
That doesn't mean she won't haunt me;
she wants her memories back.
They're mine and I'll keep them
even if everyone else thinks
I was only dreaming,
pretending,
empty,
unreal,
wrong.

I was right.

Don't pretend.

Everyone has a chance to be right sometimes—
you can't blame me for every mistake,
you can't tell me that all of my words are false.
That's simply not true.
Why won't you listen?
Why won't you let me
have my say for once and
be right? Do I speak no truth?

It isn't fair that I believe every word out of your puppet-master mouth
and I can't even listen to myself,
can't believe myself,

can't love myself.

What did you do with me?

Can't I have myself back?