red words

It’s 11:29 and I wish my cheeks were wet.

But they’re dry

and my lungs are drowning

I keep reading things that I know should make me feel

But my heart isn’t responding        

Every Sunday I hear men in suits tell me how to be happy

And every Friday the canyon reminds me why I should smile

But I’m tired of needing reminders.

I’m tired of nighttime sadness and happiness relapses

I’m mad you don’t seem to care that we look at each other like strangers now

That everything to nothing was such an easy transition for you

I’m mad I wasted time to paint my nails

I’m mad I care about social media as much as I do’

I’m mad I write for comments

Lately I’ve painted over any feelings that don’t reflect that my life is perfect

But the paint is chipping and I’m starting to wonder if painting was every really my thing in the first place

I’m mad things are working out between the two of them

I’m mad that that makes me mad

I’m mad about the two weeks of summer I lost

And that I felt like I was the only not texting four boys at all times last weekend.

The paint is chipping and I think it’s time for me to open up to the idea of flaws and imperfect realities.

Because that’s what I am and what I am living

And I'm trying really hard not to hate who I am. 

I’m mad at the weather forcasts and the full basket of laundry on my floor

I’m mad at the three of them and the fact that I’m going to miss the deadline for this post by a couple minutes.

I’m mad that all my previous posts are about the same thing

I’m mad I don’t always like myself

The paint is chipping and it hurts, but acknowledging everything underneath is allowing clarity.

Clarity that allows me to throw a lot of things away

To clean

A sort of glowing cleaning that leads to feeling again

It’s 12:11 and my cheeks

are finally wet

F. Sharpe