we're not men and admissions like this poke holes in holy men.nni'm just play-acting, navigating my way through relationships and emotionsnwith well-timed nods and much-rehearsed smiles;ni pretend to care more than i listen.nyour sincerity used to be something i envied,nnow i can't understand a word you say.nnbecause i'm cold and hardly even embarrassed to admit that my chief concern when i'm at your house late at nightnis what time i need to wake up.ni'm on cruise control: no ups, no downs' just a middle road with occasional late night rides:nartificial roller coasters and an alarm set for me in the morning.nit might be sad, but i don't know anything about that.nni weigh more these days, i feel thicker;nlayers of rough, calloused skin with dense bones and endless sheets of cartilage and muscle.nthe people around me smile and talk and breathe and it all means absolutely nothing;nthe jukebox plays songs that used to start revolutions, but those days seem far away.nnand even my own words, they dip down into me, trying to believe themselves, trying to echo loud,nbut find nothing to bounce off of.ni speak sincerely about emotions that i've only read about,nand i don't care whether people believed me or not by the time i get home.nni don't touch the flame, i do sniff at the perfume, and i always keep an umbrella nearbynbut i lie because none of it registers and i feel nothing'nfires don't burn and the rains sure as shit don't soak.nnand all i really want is a stabbing,ni want to kick the addiction' i want to feel a goddamn thing.