Twenty.

My whole life
I always thought
my belongings would
make me happy,
that having this season's
newest would somehow
mask how lonely I am,
how pathetically sad my
life is, and when I had
it but was still miserable,
it was always because
I needed something
else, my ennui was
never a reflection
of myself, although
now I know it is.

I look around
my apartment, at all of
the things I own and
am so unhappy it
is palpable, I feel
my loneliness, hemmed
in on all sides by
the things I own,
like a cage.