Fear poem - Brain surgeons can’t read your mind.

I feel so vulnerable when you put me on the spot like that.
I get a feeling of emptiness that churns my stomach and paws at the emptiness demanding for food to be invited into my mouth, chewed in a beastly way broken down by my enzymes, then sliding down my esophagus by my muscles contrasting and expanding till it reaches its destination.
But it’s alright. I like it in a weird hungry way.

Is it alright if I learn your ways?
If I place myself in your life
would you mind looking forward to seeing me?
Is it alright if I ask these questions? Or would that be unorthodox to your natures.

Let me carve your thoughts with nature and cope with this unfinished sculpture. Let these illuminating vines cover my walls and turn them into a work of art.

Open to reconnecting
and reconnecting to the thought of loss.
I can’t describe the way I feel about that because essentially I know nothing of my emotions.
I know they exist.
So when you ask me how I'm feeling I say
"I exist."
Let me plant a chip in your skull so maybe I would be able to understand you emotions.

But yet again I am to cold and decadent in my own cannibalistic ways to manipulate my brain to come up with a coherent thought on the subject of empathy.

I know nothing of your emotions.
I know they exist.
So when you ask me what I found I say
"you exist."
I become weak and vulnerable when you ask me these questions. They make me cry because I have to face myself

but it’s alright.