Is This Even a Poem?
My Parents Drive Me Home From Work

I look at the lights without my glasses on and all of the lights are blurry. I like it that way because my eyes don't strain themselves to make out every insignificant detail, nor does the rest of me. And the rest of me is often tired from straining. The rest of me gets caught up. Caught up in the wondrous delusions of beautiful girls and the road ahead rather than the sky above or the grass below or even the floating lights of the blurry night suspended in dark above dividers and dark nothing.

I get caught up in things. I get caught up in the people around me like I'm drowning in their lives, like I can't breathe through everything they like and want to share. Or it's like I forget to breathe full, deep, profound, unrestricted, honest breathes and all I have left are the shallows of my heart where sobs are born.

And I really want to hold hands with a girl. But I feel so ugly and disgusting and hateful that it feels like no one would want me. And I think that if a girl's fingers met mine, then maybe it would feel like acceptance and if I ever felt that, I would cry. I would feel my throat move up centimeters and the night would get more blurry and I would weep because I would be happy.