Staring at a blank page.

Staring at my life.

The hole that was left when you were ripped away.

This pain has no words.

Nor location in my body.

I watch the clock,

How much longer do I have to endure this stupid art therapy?

Creativity stifled by the awareness of six other people sitting around me.

Loneliness even greater when I have company.

I am convinced they hate me.

Maybe it is because I am so unfriendly,

Avoiding eye contact,

Cringing when people move closer to me.

Feeling eyes on me and my miserable piece of writing

Which hardly qualifies as art.

Maybe it is my butch attire.

The way I’ve scrunched my long hair into a beanie,

My black tee which I bought from the men’s section.

Knee length shorts and unshaven legs.

My fringe which has become somewhat of a side fringe as I haven’t bothered to cut it for so long.

People will always find a reason to hate me.

But I don’t care what these people think.

I don’t want to be friends with them.

Life is better without friends.

Without the fretting when someone doesn’t reply to your message

Without the grief which is the price of love,

Grief so painful you’d rather die.

My biggest mistake in life was to care.

I now attempt to resurrect the fortress which once encased my heart.

The walls which now lie in ruins around me,

As though a war has ripped through this place.