I wear a compass on my wrist, an anchor on my ankle but still cannot comprehend which direction I belong. I spin on an axis, undefined. The moon lures my heart, while gravity pulls my soul relentlessly. And all the while my brain screams, “Leave her the fuck alone.” But the great divide between alone and loneliness keeps me on the edge of this canyon — the voices bouncing off sunbursts and swallowed in the silky onyx of my vices. Above are pillows of solemn clouds that offer no escape, only a softer embrace. Below is a cold hardness that confirms my existence. A complete revolution takes me through a blur of obligations streaked with fickle promises. I wonder — has my life been all for show? The edge has never felt so close. I have no energy to fall that far. I stroke the compass, the illusion of home bursts with a hiss. I finger the anchor, weighing me under the featherweight of need. I have nowhere to go … so nowhere will I be.