My relationship with myself has been
a lot of lipstick smudges on coffee shop mugs
and half-formed poems written
in journals I’ll never fill up.
I’ve forgotten my name a time or two
and I don’t always recognize my body
in the mirror in my bathroom.
I wonder if my blog
has become more of an
autobiography because I’m too
egotistical to let my memory be forgotten
whenever I die (something I’m afraid will
happen any day now – a car crash, a fire,
a suicide), so I try to explain
why I am the way I am
in similes and metaphors
because I don’t know how any other way
or how to make my lips form
the names of depression, anxiety,
selfishness, or otherwise.
My fingers have started bleeding at night
from trying to climb the walls
in my sleep because
they’re beginning to feel
more and more like the sides of a coffin
and I haven’t written enough poems yet.
Day 18 Na/GloPoWriMo