It's cold and late
and my imagined everything
has become quietly hostile.
As if my pretend friends
have all left me
to talk behind my back.
And maybe none of you
are real.
Maybe this is all me.
All a bad dream.
If I fold in on myself,
hide,
this world will stop
confusing me and
leave me the hell
alone.
I know I'm all wrong.
I don't need to wonder
who else knows.