Deception

I can't tell you if I'm crazy. I'm not sure.
I will only say
that all the doors are locked from the inside,
that all the unlightened corridors wind back to here,
that all their eyes skin me like razors,
that all their movements are abrasive,
hurried and frantic.
To move with them is to be them,
And to not is to be myself.

As others stare into the peripheral blur,
My one focal point is oblivion to them.

There are hiding places in the crevices,
Where it is cold and quiet, save my own
blood, that flows with angry insects,
that chew their homes into my bones.
I need to rest, for the body is spent,
and to run is but tracing circles.

So in rest, the spasm and strain run their
course. And there in the dark are the voices
of those who have cared about me.
"Please don't" I say. "You're love is wasted
on me."

You are not crazy, they say, You are blind.
For love that is loved cannot be wasted.
To believe you are all alone is the lie of loneliness.
To feel you are going in circles is to think and behave obstinately.
To believe that your own emotions can
declare objective truths is to be deceived.