with a show of hearts on the floor.

I'm sitting cross-legged, tugging at my fingertips, eyes straining, staring, into a computer screen.
Hello my name is twenty-first century technology.
It's three demonsional, obviously. But where's the depth. Where's the depth in this.
Strands of hair are intertwined between my fingers. Textbooks and notebooks are heavy in my lap. I stare past them, past my legs, past the chair, the floor. What's beyond this. Where's the meaning. I'm dying for meaning. I'm striving for meaning.
My heart is sitting on the floor next to me, burning, yearning. It's beating, we hope. My hands reach for the keyboard, pounding and pressing in letters. I'm creating sentences that make sense to me.
Where is the depth. Give me the depth.
My front teeth roll over my bottom lip to press enter.
Just give me some dept. I'm dying for depth.
How "gay" do I sound to you. Today, on a regular basis, my whole life. Am I making myself sound less "gay" if I tell you I agree with your critiques and disagreements. My heart is doused in gasoline, burried under matchsticks, beating in time with your bomb.
Are you capable of depth. Tell me you are. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you know.
I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm irratated, I'm lost, I'm searching. Still searching. All I want is your depth.
A fire ignites.
I'm screaming for your depth. Extinguish these flames with your depth. Kill these typed out words with your depth.
I'm screaming. I'm screaming. I'm screaming.
A fire alarm is sounding in the other room.
With tired eyes, I'm watching my heart burn to ash.
Give me your depth, Isay.