why is it that i can only form words

about idiotic people making the most sense of their lives

and me hating mirrors

and me hating me.

why can’t i speak about

the way the clouds graze over my ankles when i’m laying in a field

or the way you TOUCHED my hand

and my heart fluttered like an angel

if only my innocence were that strong

and my skin that pure

i have rashes and wounds and heals and brokens

and i am not happy with any of it

but there i go again

ignoring how soft my blanket feels or the way the dust on my fan sits

even though it goes every night

to drown out my thoughts

so i have hope in falling asleep

because you know i can never sleep in silence

or with the television on

because i’m afraid of quiet and i’m afraid of loud

and i am a contradiction in every sense of the **** word

and i love it.