Who's That?

You sit,

Drunk with impressions indescribable and

Nameless until they are molded into something

Tangible-

No longer formless wisps meandering in

Empty space.

They can sculpt themselves into

People you recognize and

Maybe you want to look at that picture frame on the wall so as to

Avoid eye contact with

Her,

That one,

With the glasses and messy hair and red lips and

Who does she think she is with that

Extensive vocabulary and

Beautiful cursive?

Who does she think she is with

Words to say and

A loud voice and

Are those Muscles

When I’m supposed to be starving?

Is that color?

Light?

Dimensionality?

Where are the Blank Spaces,

The Inward Glances,

The stagnant energy behind her eyes

Where Collapse is supposed to be looming and

Sending warning signs with every

Inhale?

Who does she think she is?

And why am I hiding

Over here,

Behind the Spine of these pages?