Everything that comes out of my mouth sticks to me
like jam does to children’s hands.
All the things I say keep me up late into the night,
just like children do on Christmas Eve.
Except no man in red and white fur to look forward to,
just the fact I can’t stand myself.

eyebrows furrowing
voice whispering
hands clenching
sounds blasting
eyes wandering
heart thumping
breath shaking
sweat dripping
teeth grinding
hair messing
clock ticking
panicking

panic.

panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic
panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic

I’m in a room full of people who "love" me
and love each other,
and they’re talking to each other
while I smile, my eyes twitching from face to face,
twiddling my fingers
in an attempt to hold onto something—
to keep me breathing.

I’m in a room full of people who "love" me
and love each other,
and they’re failing to notice
I’m not there.

I’m alone.

I liked connecting the dots when I was younger—
drawing a line from dot to dot to make the picture.
My tongue between my teeth, with concentration traced on my face
as I connected the dots to make the picture.

I still like connecting the dots.
But now, I’m trying to make the picture of who I am now—
why I am the way I am now.
Connecting the dots to find out what happened
to the old me—the hopeful me, the happy me.

Connecting the dots to find the events that led up
to this different person I’ve become,
connecting the dots to make the picture of me now, inside and out.

I’ve connected the dots.
There is no picture—just a jumble of lines
leading in no clear direction, passing over each other, and lines cut off, just one massive knot of confusion.

So, with my tongue between my teeth
and concentration traced on my face,
I’m trying to make a new picture.
No dots, no lines—just me,
making the best new me I can.