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.

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.

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?

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