Blinding, piercing white.
Am I dead?
No, no.
But I am alone.
Which might scare me more than being dead.
I walk in any direction, trying to find a corner
Or the edge of a door somewhere,
Praying to whoever I can think of
To see something new
In the vast, harsh expanse of white.

I start thinking too much when I’m alone.
Moderate self-reflection is healthy, but there’s a line I crossed years ago.
Nights when I can’t sleep,
Walks when I forget my earbuds,
Any moment I can, I try to be with someone
So my brain doesn’t go to its most common place
Thinking about the moments I don’t have the guts to write about.
I can never think about what I’ve done right,
Because I can always have done something to do better.

But we aren’t there anymore.
We’re here, in the cocaine-white room.
It’s kind of like Scherzo, now that I think of it.
Now I’m thinking about Doctor Who,
And like a test that I got a bad grade on,
Everything else is immediately out of my mind.
It can be hard for me to like myself sometimes,
But sometimes the easiest solution really is,
“Don’t think about it.”