somedays being myself
feels like reaching for the baseball lost behind the thorn bush
needles ready and willing to ***** on my arm
or like untangling hair that's been soaked through with honey
every well-meant movement only doing more harm

what's worse is I don't know what i'm reaching for -
whether the ball is really mine
or how my hair's supposed to look
i wrote the book of my own life
about someone else.

somedays I look in the mirror and I wonder,
"How did you get here?"
as if someone else can give me that answer when
I know it's sitting in my stomach
turning when I hear an old song
or I smell a new scent
one that's meant to remind me
things can still be good
even if some things stay bad.

I try to tell people that I'm sad
and they try to tell me what I can do.
I just wonder whether you still think
I really could've helped you, too.

Somedays I try to look myself in the mirror and I tell her,
"We are going to be friends."
Even if I can't make me real,
I'll make me mine.