today, i am a ya novel protagonist. except… i can’t do anything about this. and the world falls apart before me; armageddon unfolding live on tv, and maybe nothing is ever going to be okay again.
because the people i love could leave. and everything i’ve worked so hard to build up could fall apart in a second.
today, the walls collapse in on me. but maybe, if i squint, i can still imagine my life pretty. and yet no matter how hard i try, it still won’t mask the stench of this reality.
today, the laugh track plays as i try to wean myself off this obsession. but i can’t. i can’t do it. because the honest truth is… i don’t know who i am without it.
and i tried asking the stars for help. yesterday. but all they did was laugh down on me, their eyes twinkling with pride. and they told me… little girl, don’t lie to yourself. you’re nobody.
and, i mean… they’re not wrong, honestly.
My therapist says it’s bad self-talk, but no matter what she tells me… sometimes, I just can’t help but feel just a little bit broken. It’s panic-writing-on-a-Sunday-night-because-I-never-learned-healthy-work-habits-and-go-between-completely-ignoring-all-of-my-responsibilities-and-working-for-eight-hours-straight hours, so I really can’t remember how much detail I’ve previously gone into about this. But anyhow, essentially the deal is that I had a pretty unconventional childhood, even if you leave out my mental illness, which manifested at a very early age, it often feels like there are these… missing pieces, I guess. Things I should have learned or experienced–but never did. Memos the other kids seemed to all get, and I just… missed out on. And more than that, parts of my brain that just refuse to cooperate with me, no matter how hard I try and force them to work with me. Like I’m just barely limping through my life, because no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to truly experience it in any positive way. Does that make sense? I’m damaged goods, is what I’m trying to get at. The broken piece of pie, the sad, drooping lettuce, an old laptop that won’t turn on.
And, like, what are you supposed to do about that? How do you go on? That’s a question I’ve been grappling with for a really long time, and what I tried to base this poem on.
Anyhow, I am very tired, and chugged a very intense and mildly disgusting matcha latte to get this post done (which I am starting to regret) so hopefully you enjoyed, and now I’m going to try and sleep. Maybe I’ll proofread this tomorrow or something; hopefully it’s coherent.
Lots of love,