charlatan

An unwritten page.

Plain.

Clean, white, and undecorated walls.

Plaid shirt.

Neutral colored furniture.

The average looking car.

I am nothing in every way. I am plain yogurt on a shelf of a hundred or more flavors. I give nothing unique because it is not within me to give. I am everything that goes into what most people overlook or pass off as mundane.

I sicken myself with all of this.

I would wish to be a light in a room. I wish to have a flavor or a something, anything. As long as it's mine.

I don't have it. Whatever it is. What I have is a small, white walled, and unassuming apartment.

Inside there is just this blank sheet. As fast as I try to fill it with substance the faster I go back over it to start over. I tryi to find something that fits me, that defines me. It feels like starting over is the only thing I'm any good at. What kind of life does this leave for me?

This blank heart poisons the things around me that I truly love. Slowly it makes things turn sour and stale until those I love break their teeth on it when they try to taste what is inside.

I must have something. Everyone does. Where is it?

Right now all I seem to have is this keyboard, warm from my fingertips and wet with these tears.