i keep waiting for life to mean something. i keep waiting for stuff to matter. i'm waiting to stop being so unsure, i'm waiting to feel some intention, i'm waiting to stop missing all the people who left me stranded. to fill my head with future in place of past, with hope in place of dead cats, with calm in place of that urge to always furrow my brow. i’m free but i’m trapped in a world where nothing’s permanent, in a purposeless state, in an echo chamber with the same hellish ideas screaming back at me. every day i go back to my lonely room and surround myself in lonely things, in lonely sounds and lonely lights and lonely blankets and pillows, and in windows cracked open, speaker static, photos peeling off the walls. i stare at the glass as the world goes dark too early, at silhouettes of twigs on branches on trunks and tiny dots of warm light on rectangles that stretch up too high. my arms itch and the scars raise and blush, and everything itches, and i can’t ever stop it. i move between boxes and slip down the hill, the wind shoves me good and i shove it back. i’m seething, i want to crush flowers, the leaves hiss and growl and the sound clogs my ears. i move from one box to another, six walls that lock me in, and the clocks tick on, and i’m stuck. everywhere i go, i’m stuck. please. set me free. i'm waiting to be set free.