my roommate likes to play dress up.
sometimes, she will look just like me;
other times, she looks like fragmented bits
of my worst weeks thrown together
in old calendars I've tried to lose.
you tell me this is a cry for help,
but "help" is a foreign word
that will always sound funny
coming from my lips.
keeping myself together
is a language I never learned to speak.
a merry-go-round of feeling bad
about feeling bad
about feeling bad.
I can't remember the opposite of sick.
my stomach is hurting
and my head is spinning
from all of these circles.
I've been avoiding my reflection
because I'm afraid she'll be disappointed
to see what I've made out of her.
I don't want to keep running from people
who once loved me.