Desperately soft things

I know this is about love,
but I have never known love.
Does that mean I’m not real?
Am I invalid?
Do I exist at all?
Because to simply exist… is to be loved.

So why am I here?
Drifting.
Mindlessly.
An empty shell echoing in silence.

Some days, I float,
suspended in soft blue clouds.
But most days,
my body crashes against the cold,
concrete floor
of a dark, endless room.

Still,
I feel nothing
except the heavy elephant
sitting on my chest.

Yet, somehow,
a red, bright light
bleeds out of me.

Is there another shell
in a room like mine?
Do they need light?
Do they need my light?

Because maybe that’s all I am.
A flicker in the dark.
And if I can pour this flicker
into another hollow form,
then let that be my existence.

Let me burn,
if it means another shell gets to glow.
                                                          
                                                            ~Dinobi

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I wrote this for the versions of us who don’t always feel real, especially in the absence of love. For the hollow days, and the red light we still carry anyway.