Present yourself as legible, bring me something I can make intelligible.

ACC, a clouded cipher.

There’s nothing in my mind to find the words I need.

 A webbed lucid dream, the composition of reality. 

I should see sunshine, I should see the moon at night. Yet, what else could I be if I’m nothing in between? 

A skeleton key can’t fit in my skull.

A notion of self is nearly null.

Conceptualize my thoughts, yet I’m not reaching comprehension.

Condense the condition I am in.

I’m blinded by intricacy. It’s only worsened by intimacy. 

I can’t see the sunshine, I can’t see the moon at night—Staggered by the heights I need to reach.

Give me a lifespan to find my synopsis. 

The memoir, my obituary.

Nature takes more than interpretation. 

Would you build me a statue lacking a face? 

Mold it from clay, the grass, and my bones.

I will see sunshine, and I will see the moon at night. It’s not all I can be, it’s all only hyperbolizing me.

Tell me, Alexithymia, would you uncover my eyes if I could find the words I need?

Please, allow me a red glimpse of light peeking through the skin. 

Understand something I don’t—I don’t see the sunshine, I don’t see the moon at night.

Plainly, I’ve seen nothing that illustrates me.