At any given time,
if you asked me what day it was
I couldn’t give a clear answer.
I measure my days in how little I’ve done for myself.
the only water I drink is when I
slam back two ibuprofen in the health office.
everything is the same now.
people don’t look at me and wonder
what is she going to wear today?
because they know.
because by now, my wardrobe’s putting out reruns.
I’ve got no time to worry about what I look like,
or feel like.
by now I’m pretty predictable.
I’m a burden to society.
I made my own conformity a best seller.
I’ve turned myself inside out before; I tried to show my inside to the world.
But I’ve flipped so many times my stomach is doing tricks.
I used to have an element of mystery to me
that kind of shock-factor kid mantra was
etched into my skin like a bad tattoo
that costs too much to get removed.
I have never let myself forget it.
I look in the mirror, and when I take a deep breath, in the fogged up glass, I see a voice.
It says,
hey, class clown reject! do you know what it feels like to be nothing at all?
I don’t have any motivation to light up a
room by ruining my integrity anymore.
Underneath all of this, I’m just an alignment of bones, waiting to be broken. And that’s what I think the cycle is, too. Waiting to be broken.
I can’t change the world. I can’t change what I can’t control.
That’s what I long for.
I’m my own villain, my own sidekick.
I know I can end my suffering.
People will always tell you to make change for yourself.
To make things better. I’ve tried. But this butterfly heart won’t let me. So I’ll start by asking: what day is it?