forty-four

read this
and worry about me.
go ahead, be my guest.

it's funny how i can't write in my journal anymore
how i have to post these inner dealings for
anyone to see
maybe everything i do is for
everyone else
look at me, i can't even write a whole sentence on
one line
because i'm so stuck on what i'm supposed to be

i can't even remember when i didn't care
my mother tells me i was never hurt by others
all the mean girls that told me just what they thought of me
and i never blinked

what happened?
i fight so hard for freedom
and the moment i'm alone
everything just crashes
and i can't think of any good metaphors
i'm tired of my life being a metaphor

because here's what's for real:
i'm miserable.

yeah, you said it,
but not about me
kicking and screaming, i'm fighting everyone i think i hate
when all they really are
are just better versions of me

i'm itching to get out into the world
to explore, to see it all, completely alone, sufficient
and i can't even kill a fucking bug
scampering defenselessly around my room.
in fact, i'll probably sleep on the couch tonight
just in case it comes to visit

i can't even complain anymore
without feeling guilty
and complaining about the fact that
i'm always complaining

my whole life has turned into this huge fucking catch 22
i hate everything
and i hate that i hate it
and i know it hates me right back