The Lines

The lines

that have been written;

fit

ever so tight

within the constructs

that my dreams

have created

of my life

and

of what I think

I

should be.

The lines

written

of

what I have actually lived;

when

transposed onto

those

almost forgotten

lines

of my dreams

fit tightly,

compactly,

on top,

and overlapping

The lines;

together?

Conflict on a single plain,

non-amicably,

leaving no space to breathe.

So they breathe one another.

Like mutual parasites,

consuming each other;

leaving me in places like these,

where few words are left

to describe

what I once wanted,

and who I now,

find myself to be.