I sometimes pretend to be someone else,
but I quickly find that I don’t like them either.
If I’m not comfortable in my own skin,
how could I be comfortable anywhere else?
Besides, their scars are too different from mine.
I’ve not learned from the same mistakes.
No one ever told me what I’m supposed to do with my hands.
It always feels like they belong to someone else—somewhere else.
I’m either a robot, or I’m angry, or I’m shy, or I’m uncertain.
God forbid I touch my hair or my cheek.
I sometimes pretend I just don’t have hands at all.
I imagine people would ask for far less favors.
I’m tired of giving handouts, but you’ll never hear me say no.
I hate it when people try to open the door for me when I’m more than 10 feet away.
It’s like being asked a question with a full mouth.
Why does it take longer to chew?
Well, life has long been tasteless.
So, to hell with it. The food is great, thanks.
Does that make me a hypocrite?
Asking for a friend.
The plaster made my nose tickle back then.
One good whiff and I was sky high.
Kidding. I don’t do drugs.
I’m too scared to become my father’s daughter.
I think I stopped caring around the same time I stopped taking my medicine.
I can still taste the poison. 20mgs of happiness.
White walls. White Styrofoam. White pills.
And chock-full of white, white lies.
Nothing like the feeling of the jig being up, am I right?
I think I’ve lost weight since I last told the truth to myself.
If I’m being honest.
It could have been louder.
I could have been louder.
I don’t trust people like I used to,
but I still trust too easily.
Maybe it’s the stench.
I can’t stand it when something smells off,
but I’m always going to be looking for where my cat pissed.
It’s here somewhere.
Malingering, even if I scrub it down to the nitty gritty.
Maybe I’ve fallen a little. Just a little bit.
My sleep isn’t what it used to be.
I sometimes write something and then get ChatGPT to tell me what I’m feeling.
I feel so clueless.
Don’t pretend like you know me.
I’m actually pretty happy.
I’m so fucking happy.
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