Listen to this
It’s different now. When I crumble. The blankets
wrapped up around my face and I squirm
in the sheets.
This is not the same sadness we became so well
acquainted with. Not the monster we learned to
battle. No, I face this one alone and
only sometimes. I do not pull my knees to my
chest anymore. Do not wail into the universe about
not wanting to exist in it.
But on occasion I still find myself fighting
my own chemistry. My own memory of how I am and
how I am supposed to be.
Clay that should become tile piles up in the studio. I
argue with the urge to cut all my hair off.
Stay all day on the couch watching Breaking Bad again.
Familiar feeling, but not quite the same. Closer to déjà vu than…
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