My fists slam against concrete and I try to shake the world in order for it to feel what I feel. I’m crumbling and rebuilding myself. Always reminding me that I can’t be fixed. I stumble like a sentence that you beg to say. But mercy is coated in all sorts of things. For me it’s empty bottles that echo when the wind hits them just right. Walking alone to my favorite shitty diner. Every-time I watch in agony as one more sad human eats alone. Why do they eat alone every fucking time I’m here? Their hollows echo through me like bullets ripping through my organs and I can’t even stand to be here anymore. The waitress shouldn’t charge them for this shitty coffee and someone should paint the fucking walls a different color. And this is what it looks like to feel too much. I hope you care too. Hope the moon looks like a shooting star for you. And if I had the power I would let my fists slam against concrete and I would try to shake the world in order for it to feel what you feel.