Fully Empty
November 1, 2017

It's 80 degrees out and I'm wearing a hoodie, a jacket, and a hat. 
I tell myself I'm cold, but the sweat stains oozing through my backside, backpack straps striping my shoulders, unknowingly reveal my lie.
Signs of the excuse as untrue do not deter my reasoning:
I woke up a bit brisk, bring a cotton cloak, erect its pocket for the head, entrap the heat, embed those blinders:
look ahead with deceitful directness.
Overcasted. It could rain, let’s not get soaked, apply that nylon skin, desensitize from the surroundings:
emphasize safety over experience. 
A hat because I need a haircut- too disproportionately curled to let it loose and carefree:
contain the crazy, don’t let anyone see.
But now, more than single strands of split ends seep out,
and somehow the sky has turned wholesomely blue,
while I realize I’m beginning to overheat.
What’s the real deal if solutions haven’t helped and took on an impact of their own, separate from what I meant to prevent? 
I've subconsciously gotten lost in a simulation.
It’s time to dissect in search for the rooted causation,
choose a new dialect of explanation: I must’ve misunderstood.
Yet I am obstinately still; insanely silent.
I’ll remain suffering until winter, for the weather to suit my laid blame, justifying the 
compulsive additions to my worn wardrobe.
Wait.
Just as I’ve escaped in relief of becoming sensible,
personal disturbances are still present:
what is to be held accountable?
I’m apprehended by my issues:
that hat is simply bandaging mental cracks;
that jacket is because I’m too fragile for any downpour- dissolution occurs the moment I embrace contact;
that hoodie is to hide my starvation, hushing the chit-chattering of bones about hunger.
I’ve subdued myself with false distractions:
continuously layering more screens, of convex construction, that demean and inverse truth;
retracting, by way of refracting, sight.
Every promulgation of a problem becomes misidentified:
sciolism spawns uninvolved culprits.
Every item associated with debilitative properties is only perceived to be as an act of personal pity to diffract fault.
I can’t remember the last time I haven’t had something over my head,
so again, when here comes the hot air,
which my solutions can’t bear, and start to melt-
soon after will be the reply:
take it off, and I’ll be fine.
No, the crime is not my manufactured exoskeleton because if I were able to see myself in a different light,
I’d just come to find that
I’m spineless.

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