the truth

I know how it feels.

more than I would like to admit

red skin

scratches

and dots of blood

crumped on napkins.

I know how it feels

more than I would like to admit

fantasies

of riding elevators

and feeling the wind on my face

for the last time.

I know how it feels

more than I would like to admit

helpless

hopeless

useless

undeserving.

I know how it feels

and yet,

do I feel?