I sometimes pretend to be someone else,
but I quickly find that I don’t like them either.
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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