It’s this feeling,
like the smell of bread burning
or the taste of molding milk.

It’s this feeling of always being second
because first is perpetually taken;
it’s occupant flesh or the concrete
pedestal stood in their place.

It’s this feeling of feeling
like everything and nothing matters,

all of the time,

and you can’t quite explain why
your shins are bruised
or why there are pinch marks on your arm.

It’s this feeling of losing
in a game against yourself —
checkmate.

It’s this feeling
that makes me feel so
forgotten.

It feels like I’ve done something wrong,
even when I never opened my mouth,
never took the bait,
never raised my gaze.

Very few have ever reached far enough
to tap upon my soul, set up camp,
and listen with an orange in hand.