Nobody

she’s staring again—through a slate patch on dirty viewscreen

behold that empty diary, no emergency contact

who the fuck are you to think anything needs you

things wouldn’t be better without you—they’d be exactly the same

she’s crying again—pressed between bed and wall

and you can’t help but consider

among the dust, stray hair, and nihilistic tendencies

there’s a whole lot of nobodies pretending to be somebodies out there