The lights in my room feel dim, when I never touched the switch.
Writing about myself feels odd, narcissistic.
I used to feel supported, but their ‘terms of endearment’ feel backhanded.
Those who acted like a shield are now the arrows speeding towards me.
So I stay in the low lit room, reading fantasy and romance I can get lost in.
Turning the pages quickly as I wish someone would turn the pages of my life.
Far into the future I hope for more.
The dim glow will explode, into a fluorescent light.
Emma After Hours 