Why a Poet’s Mind is Not Beautiful

My backseat is lined with
Mcdonald’s bags because I can’t
remember the last time I cooked, and now
I have to throw away all the expired food in the fridge
again.
This is a waste, I am a waste.
One day I will cook, one day I will listen to myself,
one day I will stop skipping meals for naps.

I called into work and canceled on my friends
again.
I don’t know how to do anything else except for
look sick and busy.
I get tired.
I get t-ired of taking care of myself.
I get t-i-red of being someone.

Pretty girl, smart girl, skinny girl, happy girl,
if I can wear it on my mouth
I can cover what’s in the heart.
I am lies, and people are believers.
My mom’s voice rings in my head and she’s saying,
“Nothing else matters as long as
your face is pretty.”
I know this is a metaphor for how much I hide
even from myself.

I am either too avoidant or too indulgent
I am not good at loving people,
I am good at pretending.
This isn’t a pity story,
this is about how I don’t fight.
This is about the difference between who I was
last year and right now,
and how there is too much.

I take everything to heart
and I follow emotional conversations with “I don’t care.”
I am paradoxes,
I am defense mechanisms,
I can’t be broken if
you don’t hurt me.

Abandoned art
is still art.

Loneliness is living alone in a studio
miles away from all my friends,
and telling others it’s my castle
amidst the worn down neighborhood where I dream about
how everything comes alive.
But the only thing coming alive is the
death of me.
Loneliness is sleeping fifteen hours a day
and calling it the practice of lucid dreaming.

I wanted to write about how I am the sea
despite all of this,
despite how much of a coward I am,
(that is there something left of me)
but then I remembered that I always
turn into a tsunami.

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