adult words

 

Today I made a list of appointments that

stacked up in my to-do list,

bumping back things I said I’d do but didn’t.

I added a few things to the list

just for fun

because

we need reasons, now, explanations,

sometimes excuses,

and we find fun in things like

do the dishes, clean my apartment

write thank you notes, watch the news.

This is adulting. 

Yesterday was tomorrow and today is almost over and

I forgot to look at the way the flowers bend, too heavy to

hold their heads, because, mine too

down, in my lap.

I read through my journal more often than I write in it.

I pick out moments that have come and gone.

Today I am depressed and I am feeling anxious and

so and so was not very nice and I think that I am

needing some friends.

It is a retrospective. It is an analysis of life.

It is the statistics of who has come and gone

and hypothesis about why that might have been.

I want to write with the fluidity and

anguish of Anais Nin, but all that comes out is

haphazard crayola crayon scribbles of

a girl with a raggedy head

who is just figuring out how to

pretend she gets it. 

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