Dear diary.

Dear diary,
I've never felt this alone,
this inconsolable,
this much in touch
with the wind.

I've never felt so blue,
like cobalt steel;
I've never felt so lost
in so much noise
or so close to closeness.

I've never been so mad,
so incapable
of doing anything,
so blank -
and for so long.

I used to have a diary,
diary, but I stopped all that;
filling in the blanks.
Now I wait for years
and fill in blank.
There are no ghosts here -
just the stillness of deadness.

Diary,
I want for so much
and want for so little -
just human touch
or lip spittle
or naked arms
and something more
than nothing's arms
or moment's paw.

I want something lasting
to live in these cracks
and inhabit everything
about me
and between me.
I'm so lonely, diary.
This is no joke.
Your pages can laugh.

Diary,
all I can do is walk now.
I can't think. Appetite is useless.
Water is a chore. Speaking is an end.
I wish I were more sensible.
I wish I weren't built
to self-destruct
like this.

Diary,
I wish I could burn you
and hear you cry.
Diary, I don't want to die.
I don't even want to live.
I want for nothing.
I just want to cry for something.
Diary, I wish you would burn all this
for me;
I wish you would re-write all this.