Riverbank

I woke up in a field of flowers by the riverbank. Except I wasn’t there at all;
I was in the prison of a comfortable bed, made uncomfortable by the fact that it wasn’t my own.
Do you know the singing of a bird in the morning? I remember it most when it isn’t there.
I remember it most when I cannot hear it because I am too far away.
Do you know the smell and sounds of the people who make you feel happy?

I remember them most when no one is there. I remember them most when I am too far away.
The taste of my tears is the only coffee I have until I leave this place, but something makes my legs useless and bids me to stay still.
To lay here and listen to my heart that beats and stops and feverishly beats and stops again.
I am innocent, I am innocent. I want to be in love, so I am innocent.
I only do this for love.

But no one really loves me here. Hearts are as white as the walls. Bland. Faceless.
Nothing here has value and it is excruciatingly empty.
I have never been so glad to be alone than in this moment, and I am so glad I am crying at this desperate emotion that eats all my organs like a thousand maggots.
I am so glad to be crying.