It's October and I still have no clue what I’m doing.
I’ve worn the same sports bra all year, and I’m not sorry about it.
Sometimes I don’t wear one at all, and sometimes I like to feel my flesh for what it is.
The truth is, the ones I own don’t fit anymore, but I have a hard time letting things go, so I keep wearing them, and we just leave it at that. And I would have gone shopping for more, but my sadness got the best of me again. It’s the story of my life, really…. The nervous girl got more nervous and felt uncomfortable trying to remain comfortable.
The year is almost over and I’m still missing August. And I laughed so hard last week, I almost coughed up a lung, but I had no one to tell. All of my friends are lost somewhere between heaven and hell. And I’ve simply stopped looking for them.
Most of the time I’m just too happy to be alive. Even when it hurts, even when it makes no sense at all and it seems like that's all I’m ever doing… trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense and sometimes I don’t think I want to know.
My head is aching, and my heart is cold. I’m feeling blue, again!! and there are only so many poems I can write until this tiredness no longer looks pretty to me. Unit I know I have to go back to therapy. Until I am dangerously close to the edge again.
And I swear I’m working on myself, but I wish it didn’t feel like I always needed to be fixed. I wish I radiated confidence or at least had the money to pretend as if I have it. But I’m broke and I’m in college, and I don’t even know why I’m going.
The dreams I once had don’t sense to me anymore and the only happiness I feel now is when I write a poem with my eyes closed and don’t hate myself for it. And I hate to say it, but I’m happiest when I’m feeling sad.
I don’t know who I am behind this mask. When I look at my hands, I weep. It's been like three years of this and I’m always tired. I’m tired of all the therapy, but I’m still smart enough to go back when it gets bad again.
I listen to my favourite song until I get sick of them. I do the same thing to myself. I think about the worst moments of my life until they’re this personal, handcrafted poison I drink before bed.
I think about my worth like it's something that’s up for discussion. Like you can somehow gauge something like that. I forget that just being here is enough. That’s who I am and who I get to be is not a debate to be won.
I’m learning that what I’ve been through is mine alone to swallow. And that having regrets doesn’t necessarily make me a bad person.
I’m downing my medication like a good girl and doing everything that my parents couldn’t, and the truth is, I can’t run from who I am forever. No matter how much I want to, no matter how many poems I write, no matter how good I get at it, how many phoebe bridgers songs can I listen to before I start to realize the obvious?
It’s October and I still have no clue what I’m doing, and I want to say that I’m figuring it out, but I’m writing about my pain again because I can let it all be for nothing.
