I put my arms out, wrap fingers 'round my pillow and pretend I know what I’m reaching for--like I’m ready for anything at all.
I’m open to contentment but I wouldn’t change for anyone right now.
and I feel like maybe I’m too anxious, too ready to be there.
but you see, I’d just rather be anywhere at all than here.
I’m an escapist from reality until I feel like creating my own.
and that’s a problem, so they tell me, when you’re all but 22.
this way all I have to find is myself in someone else’s form.
and more often, I end as the sculpture,
woe is me.