I am the pieces of dust on the dashboard, the list of unopened messages.
I am not the withering plant, but not the blooming one.
I am the guitar picks lost in your room. useful, but replaced and not needed.
I am not worthless, I know that much.
but just nothing.
and I have my own adventures.
and my own ideas and worlds and plans.
but do they exist?
and it is okay to be nothing, I think,
it is better to feel hurt quietly than to cause it for someone else.
silence buzzes in my ears.
tomorrow feels rather empty.
(written right before disappearing.
it is home now
the quiet fog.)
learning to feast on God's word.
to let it fill me.
I made excuses, even recently. but in reality, in the day to day, I am just never enough.
and that is ok.