i find myself wishing
that i were anything
but what i am

inconsequential

pressing until my fingers
crush their own tips,
pushing on myself
to make sure i am

ineffectual

i thought i was becoming
more each time but
in searching i only find
raw distortions of me
between the lines.

inanimate

each word obscures
until i am left as
a dusky myth
in the corner
behind yesterday.