i wonder if the need to talk about myself comes from the stars;
narcissism is a common trait in all three of my signs,
taurus, leo, and scorpio;
or it could be the fact that i'm an artist;
a person who tells their own story over and over through means of different media.
i've always said that artists are narcissists,
we come built with an inherent fixation on ourselves,
an insatiable desire to fill the world with us;
we need to be seen, need to be heard, need to be felt.
but i'm not so sure if that's it.
artists, we want to be known for our work;
i want that, and i want to be known for me.
i want to be thought of when i'm not around,
i want someone to hear something and think of my face.
i want to talk someone's ear off.

i live my whole life in a jar;
i don't speak much,
and i'm often too quiet to be heard from behind the glass.
can the world be about me, for a minute?

i can't control how people see me inside this jar,
i can't control the weather,
or the future.
i have no control over anything at all;
can i explain myself?
can i explain?
can you hear me?

the day i get into college,
my mother says she is proud of me.
her eyes water;
her little girl is growing up.
my hands shake in the passenger seat.
my eyes water for different reasons.

the day i go back to therapy,
my mother says she is proud of me.
she cries again --
it's a family trait --
and holds me in her arms.
i wonder how she could ever be proud of a child who is scared of recovery;
a child whose only discernible feature is the anxiety rocking in their chest.

the day i move into college,
my mother says she is proud of me.
she says it's a big step forward.
she appreciates that i'm taking a step out of my comfort zone.
i want to tell her that it's my comfort zone that's adapting to this new place,
not me.
my comfort zone is nervousness and never-ending panic;
it's just searching for new things to worry about.
goodbye is so hard.

i spend my first few weeks of college in a panic induced state;
weeks blur into one another and i stay in my dorm whenever possible.
i skip meals,
because the cafeteria is a long walk across thin ice.
everyone's staring at me,
this obese baby deer,
learning how to walk on legs that are too meek.
i sometimes call my mother in tears;
she says she is proud of me.
it's so refreshing to hear that it hurts.
there are wounds beneath my elbow where i took out the rattling of my bones during a meltdown in my design class;
they itch underneath the bandaids as she reassures me:
she's proud of me.

i can only imagine the look on her face if she sees what i've done to myself,
the seven shallow scars underneath my elbow.
i haven't done that in years.
will she pull me out of school?
realize the pressures of living is too heavy for me to wear right now?
too heavy for me in five years?
too heavy forever?
the word proud is lost on her lips;
replaced by the word sorry.
how could she ever be proud of a child who can't make phone calls without crying at least twice?
how could she ever be proud of a child who hyperventilates when a cafeteria worker scolds them for not using tongs?
how could she ever be proud of a child who found a frenzied comfort in a blade?
mama, are you proud?

you were just a boy -
teeth glistening, cheeks aching -
rehearsed politeness and combed hair --
poise and dignity,
an air of confidence circles you like a shark

phony boy,
made from cellophane;
talk a big game, go home and write lines you'll never say

you stay awake -
you don't really have a choice -
remodel your town, make it the place you long for it to be;
remodel yourself --
carve yourself from marble, aluminum boy

they used to call you adonis;
now, they call you nothing
you were only a boy

breaking bones
grinding them to dust
let your skin shrivel
let the sun soak it up
you belong to the ground
your heartbeat,
your spine,
your stomach
girls like you don't stay above ground for long
it's time to go home
lay in the dirt
no pain, all peace
the earth misses your breath
swallow fallen teeth
and sink

magnets for misery melted into mouths,
molded lips made for malaise

the heavyhearted rock in between hips,
hot and hopeless

loneliness lives in lungs
the listless leaping of laborious breaths,
lugubrious lusting

souls ****** sadness,
**** songs of sorrow
somber little slapper
sleeps next to something sonorous,
slow sinking

the early morning silence is good for me

i usually miss out on the sunrise,
but when i don't, i let myself soak in it

my fingers prune under the rays of a sun unreleased

this in-between --
the not quite day, but not quite night --
sets my world in motion

time stands still and life forms inside my window pane

bliss in a 5:30AM lilac sky

the early morning silence is good for me

i put my eggs on the bottom of all my groceries.
i did it last time, and i'll do it again,
and i'll still act shocked when i open the carton and they've fallen apart.
i'll watch devastatingly as the yolk slips through my fingers;
i'll mourn for the money lost, mourn for the eggshells on my kitchen counter.

breakfast is the healthiest meal of the day, and mine is spread across my kitchen floor.
everyone walks on eggshells around me,
but i stomp on them.
i pour bacon grease on my legs;
the burn feels good for thirty minutes,
but the blisters become unbearable at thirty-one.

i didn't just spill the milk;
i poked a hole in the carton.
i watched it leak through, like blood seeping through a bandage;
i'm crying over spilled milk.
i'm always crying over spilled milk.

i want to grow out of this never ending stage of self sabotage;
i am the victim,
i am always the victim;
the child cries wolf and no one in town cares anymore;
the wolf can't be found,
because the child has swallowed it.

i am no good.
my kitchen is a mess,
i don't eat breakfast,
and i play the victim card like it's the only one left in the deck.
my groceries are in the dumpster out back;
i'm ravenous --
i'll eat you out of house and home.