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
we need reasons, now, explanations,
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.