I was going to write a story about my mother
but I realized that explaining how she felt alien
within her surroundings
and succumbing to her distractions
and vanity
would give her qualities of humanity
that she did not deserve.
Not because I didn't want someone
to sympathize or feel pity for her
but because
she simply isn't
human at all

The thought of raising my voice above a murmur
or stopping my hands from shaking long enough
coils the fragmented hope inside of me to maybe
give something a shot.
Though reaching out to me isn't enough
because it's already over for the girl who, in the end,
can't raise her voice above a murmur
or stop her hands from shaking long enough
but can drink alone
and write bad poetry.
Cheers.

They called me days ago

and can’t afford to see me.

It’s okay, I don’t mind.

I’m only turning twenty.

It’s been nearly four years since

I was given a used mattress, toothbrush, and peppermints –

Not that I wasn’t grateful.

I was just hoping something would have changed by now.

It’s okay, I don’t mind.

I haven’t spoken in days.

It’s okay, I don’t mind.

I can count friends within the state on *******.

Those jokes I made weren’t jokes at all.

I should have stayed in Europe.

It’s okay, I don’t mind.

It’s okay, I won’t mind.

It’s okay, I can’t mind anymore.

With every deep inhale of smoke I feel like I bludgeon myself over the head with numbness. I quickly indite myself into the realm that old hippies sang about-- the giggly, bright eyed nature that is a door to escape out of. I find myself pulling away from the anxiety, finding a new peace in the immobility. It is the only excuse I have. I can say to myself, “It's okay. You're high. Everything is trivial and enjoy this. **** the things you should be doing.” But what should I always be doing? I don't know whether to slap myself or embrace the blissful stupidity. I gradually come closer to sobering up, and I slowly panic. I unsuccessfully doggie paddle among the insanity that my mind is drowning in, and I know I can sustain myself for a while. But that while will stop, and something has to happen, right?

Am I losing my mind? Though everyone seems to experience these kinds of anxieties, I feel more and more isolated. Venting, describing my pain doesn't even help when words can't sum up the intense circles I keep making. I'm pacing within the confines of the walls I make, and it's both good and bad that I have built them in the first place. The walls that surround me are more so of a maze rather than a distinct, open cage. Though I'm lost within what I created for myself, I try to battle, constantly slipping into a paradoxical coma. My stagnation forces these passions to build, though the passions won't have their way. I can't just find a singular way to funnel my energy, though there are so many routes of travel that open themselves to me, and all I can do is stagger at the sight.

I'm sick of trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do, and rather absorb what I do presently. It's easy to forget that the present exists when everything around you nearly pulls off your limbs in efforts to make you move in a certain direction. What if I'm not ready to be pulled in a direction, or even a multitude of directions? How am I supposed to decide when it hurts to be told you have everything in front of you when you can't tell what is real or not?