Empathy

Faced with white expanse, expectant and waiting
to be filled
and so am I.
To write is to explain but what is there to explain
when I don’t even know who I am.
Filled, always filled to the brim with what is not mine
and I don’t know how to stop
and breathe
and figure this out.
Cosmically comical that I can capture everyone else
except for me.
Mirror, I’m a looking glass that sucks everything in
but is never really anything except for what it shows.
I sound like a sci-fi anomaly when explaining
what it is that I can’t explain
to people who can’t understand what it’s like
to feel them more strongly than they feel themselves
and hear their thoughts
and see their words in colors dance before me
and not be able to sleep because they’re invading my brain
and feel when they ache.
I’m a blank sheet of paper being filled with stories
still trying to learn to write my own.