When I think about thinking
That’s when things are a mess
It makes me feel less than human
Staring into space into nothing
Heart beating like I’m running
And I am
I’m running from myself
From my mind
And there’s nothing I can find
That will fill this void
This hole inside
There’s acid in my throat
I spit up acid on my hopes
And dreams
And nothing’s what it seems
And though I try my best
I don’t know what anything means
The last decent thought I try to keep
The dark that begins to creep
I don’t ******* for pleasure
I ******* to fall asleep
My friends and my family
They know I’m a liar
They ask, “Are you ok?”
I say “I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

Whatever it is,
It wells up inside me like a cup runneth over.

Whatever it is,
It is my Crimson and Clover.

Whatever it is,
It is over and over.

I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

I thought I was smart enough to know that five m&m’s isn’t a meal

Frozen feet,
Hot oatmeal,
White noise,
Blurry letters.

Days melt into each other,
The passage of time now a soupy broth of numbness.
Distractions,
Sleep.
It’s not enough.

Dried up watercolours call my name,
Where’d you go?
I’m sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.
I’ve been carving faces into walls.
I’ve been eating my nails just to feel something.
No taste yet, but I’ll keep you updated.

im sick of this smell
i hate feeling like the hospital
//
it feels like the hospital
cant sleep
ears hurt
stomach tight
mouth dry
smells like the hospital
pillow hard
walls cold
too warm
//
does the city feel a little bit like home or the hospital

i just want to scream at them that theydont get to care now
they dont get to pretend that they never hurt me
not without saying sorry
not without telling me why
why that for years they ignored me
no matter how hard i tried
no matter what i did or said or didn't do
they never tried for me then
not when i needed them
not when i was screaming for help
but now
now that im okay and can handle myself
they care