Conglomeration of All Things Terrible

at worst, i am nothing more than body parts,

a bone here, a socket there,

tendons and ligaments that have been

strategically

arranged

so that i may walk and move and speak

and think and love and feel

like other homo sapiens.

at best, i am nothing more than a damaged product

of my environment and,

more likely and most importantly,

my own self-destruction.

there is no forgiveness that i can

allow myself.

not when i've got so much to prove.

at least, i am nothing more than a lost soul,

wandering this vast orb to try and find

some kind of meaning

some kind of anything

so that it won't feel like a waste

or like i've just been sucking up space

and air and resources

that could have been used on someone more

deserving.

at most, i am nothing more than who you see before you,

this tracing-paper-cut-out of who i used to be,

with all of the necessary parts

(the lungs and heart and brain and things)

i need to make me whole,

vacant in the places that should be full,

hollow in the parts that should have substance.

at worst at best at least at most.

don't ask me to explain it all.

i haven't got a clue.