Mom carried me for ten months, I was one month late.
Tomorrow will be my birthday and I'll be turning forty-eight.
In just two years from now, I will have lived for half a century.
It was 576 months ago when my mom gave birth to me.

anytime someone praises the qualities i own,
i feel like a trickster.
a master of deception
a queen of lies
a doomed being
that doesn't deserves anything

just criticism
is what feels fine.
am i sick?
do i need treatment?
do i need to be locked up in a cage?
do i?

please say i do.
cause that seems just alright.

I want to sit at the edge of the world
with my legs hanging
and wonder how my life could have been
If I have lived that other life so far away from here

It might just probably be the same cycle unfolding,
The same old dusty vices, same me eating my own tail

And I pretend that is my consolation
to think everything could have been the same.