zero

i swore
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;

_{i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises}

colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,

but i was born into a colorless world--

no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but

all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered heels
to believe in me: to pray upon
the monuments i built for
broken dreams and to baptize me
in his tainted tears,

i just want him to be real. more
than anything, i want to be real, i want
to be more than an imaginary friend
to various mental limitations; i want
to trade my liquid skin [evaporating]
for a chance to be

_{i am a moth and you are the lighthouse}

i want you to see me