You Can’t Think

You’ll come back here eventually.

What killed you? Brokenheartedness, apathy, something of the sort. Perhaps you never even existed to begin with. 

You certainly can’t remember, can you? Either way, you’re alone here, so nobody will judge you for that. 

What can you remember? Can you remember being something? Anything at all? Ever?

Or is it just scraps you’ve taken to convincing yourself never happened because they’re too painful to bear? 

Did you have a past or have you convinced yourself your memories are of somebody else so you could try to distance yourself? 

Were you ever anything at all or have you ripped out what you were because it was too broken to fix? 

Did you ever have a heart or did you rip it out of your own fucking chest?

You don’t exist. 

You are dead. 

How many years has it been?

There was a time when “you” were “you,” years and years and years ago. You lived in the north, and it snowed and was freezing cold, but you found beauty in that. You still did, and do.

You were poor but didn’t realize it because you had never seen what it would look like if somebody wasn’t. 

You were alone then as well. 

You were always silent but didn’t realize it because you had never found somebody who would listen. 

And that’s still true, at least. And you would try and try and try to make something that people would listen to so you could use them as proof that you are real, that you do actually exist, that other people see you and hear you and remember you. We know the wind by the trees. 

And maybe you tried to actually make something, but you couldn’t, because you can’t think, and you can’t think of how to finish this sentence

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