I don't dream and I don't need to

I do(n't) want you to know yet(/already)
so please don't (over)react

I've found comfort in my bumpy arms
reminding me that my prison is lined
with wood-chip walls

no words
no one speaks in here
and even less does anyone listen.

"Sleep is for the weak"
but to be weak was to be protected
and I think sometimes,
           'oh how people cared
           even enough to make my loneliness feel momentary
           and to split seconds into understanding love
           and incapacitating myself with it'

I promise you that everything has changed inexplicably
hence why I can't explain
how
I can be so happy
and still know that there's nothing at the end of all this shit.
Sleeplessly I don't work and I don't care one bit.

'Have those babies you've always wanted and indulge yourself in prospective careers'
it's a shame to think they'd have half of my genes
half of this misery
and as for art
I'm pretty certain that willingly
I'm letting it start killing me