Worried I don’t know how to learn from my mistakes,
I linger on leaving when I know I’m not wanted. I make the mistake and then I make it a few dozen times more, just to prove the theory.
We shouldn’t waste our time space continuum waiting for people to change.
The little red post it notes detail subtly and up front what you’re getting yourself into and you should believe the clutter.

Messes don’t right themselves. You have to clean it. And if it’s not your house it’s not yours to clean.

A teacher once said he was worried that I used a lower case i because I don’t value myself enough to use a capital one. I know that I use the little one because I think it’s cuter than the big one, aesthetically.
It’s really not that deep, I thought.
He also thought I was rude and insecure, and possibly off her rocker.
(I’m too young for rockers anyways).
Do you ever feel like a person who’s lost track of the car they were supposed to be following and your phone is dead?
Or feel like you’ve been left behind one too many times. Is there ever a gash big enough that the doctors just say “we don’t have enough stitches …we’re sorry. You’re just gonna have to fix this one yourself or die trying.”
I like the idea of die trying. It’s the meaning of life.

My therapist looks at me says
“why do you think they all give up on you?”
and I put my hand out, “no questions please.” But that’s not real. (If you were paying attention you would know) I can not afford a therapist.

The one time I made an appointment with a therapist (things had gotten incredibly bleak, “a turn for the worse”) I showed up and rang the doorbell, no one answered so I called her number and she said she was on vacation in Los Angeles, “if I could call back after August?”
“Yes, of course,” I lied.

Most days I don’t care what it looks like, the blurry photograph of what it is to exist, and it even looks better in real life anyways.
I am getting by even though I have been unable to find a way to be both glamorous and a “survivor”,
and that can be a disappointment.

My chest is curiously hollow and heavy at the same time.
I feel it in the way I cling to my sweater, the way I haunt the bar I work at looking at the lonely people. We are the same breed but we don’t know how to relate about it so

I will them not to talk to me.

My sunken eyes boring into the wall trying to disappear into the shadows that compel them to drink.

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