My life is going at 80 miles an hour,
My head is going at 100 miles an hour,
and my heart is stopped.
It has not worked in years;
I exist as a walking cliché- a suit of my profession;
I have not loved in years, I do not feel,
except for jealousy because the ******* the bus has prettier wrists than I do,
and shame because I let my boyfriend shout at me and said nothing;
and I feel lost because I made it
to where I wanted to be
ten years ago.