my own private island

i hate when disconnection feels normal.
my own private island
forging my name on someone else's sheets.
i knock on doors. i am a visitor
waiting to make my bread and then leave.
my hands pressed against glass,
i watch the thirsty drink their tea
and quench the plausible things that i can't seem
to figure out how to do, not at least without asking for help
which, in turn, makes me feel ugly

and behind closed doors i wish for things
like how to control my life and put things on pause when i'm happy
overlook the brittle air and not let it affect me
instead of dragging me down
and to be needed for longer than a honeymoon phase
because i'm something worth growing with
i need a base beyond my own private island
that shelters my desire to feel full and content
where i can understand everything. and be understood

until then, i'll keep knocking on these doors
offering the best i can or sub par at least
whatever gets me through the day, two notes closer
till the bridge in the song, a reminder that
this is all a process. something i forget while i
format the lines others draw and keep them steadily in place
ignoring my inner begging