It steals things.
My bright things.
Anything pretty or shiny or good.
It tells me things.
Tells me I'm not in on the joke.
Everyone is faking it.
That I didn't try hard enough.
It steals things.
Anything that sparkles with joy
Anything that's made of laughter or connection.
It makes me feel heavy.
It whispers the answers in my ear
And pastes lists of losts and lasts and misses behind my eyelids at night.
You are ugly and broken,
It says.
You will never be.
It takes my hope and my desire and my ferocity and wears them in its lapel like a flower.
My breath is sour,
My hands are empty and my feet are still.

It tells me I'll never sing again.
That my songs weren't ever good, anyway
And that I should just hand it the keys and turn in.

It's stealing everything.