I am not a metaphor.
I’m messy hair and not-real pants. I’m weak philosophical arguments and excitement over meaningless things. I’m self-doubt, self-deprecation, and smudged eyeliner. I’m brokenness and I’m impatience and I’m emptiness and I’m insecurity. I’m the IBS that follows my anxiety and I’m the anemia that keeps me perpetually tired. I’m the paintings that I hide and the sarcasm in my jokes. I’m the books that I read and the things that I believe and the people that I love.
When you look at me, you don’t see me, do you? Because to you, there’s only idealization and depreciation. You’re asphyxiating me with your binary systems. I can’t fix you and I can’t break you and it’s so exhausting trying to convince you otherwise.
I am not a muse or a promise or an Answer.
Because I am not an idea. I am a person.
(Isn’t it funny how it’s seven years later and nothing has changed?)