a fire alarm, an empty glass

It is hard, you know.
A man, a boy, a kid.
just someone
trying to be who they are.
trying to like who they are being
and finding it hard.

it is hard
to own nothing.
it is harder
to not be owned
by anyone,
someone,
yourself.

it is hard, of course
to find comfort only
in foreign things
a person
a substance
temporary
gilded.

it is hard for someone
to know their worth.
A life of one glass
after another
half empty
never full enough.
A life just begun.
death looming
nonetheless.

it is harder
when you're confronted
with a glass
half-full
of the life you
never thought
you deserved.

a daughter,
a girl, a kid
someone else
hunched over
hiding a face
blushed with tears,
scared for who you are.
making you question
things, maybe.

a note written with ill
intentions, crumpled on
the floor

a growing sense of
apathy, a plea for
distance

a knock on the door
goes unanswered.
burn the door,
and put it out with
the glass half full.

a boy, a kid,
someone.
an empty glass,
a fire alarm.
and it is hard,
you know.