What can I say? It’s late, and I am an angsty, melodramatic teenager.
Lose myself in the scribbles
Fill up the holes
Round and round
The speedy mechanical snail leaves its graphite trail,
Patterns so pretty and mindless.
What blissful distraction!
I don’t feel it
But my shirt hovers a little higher than it should when I lay down.
It’s a little hard to bend down
And a little harder to look down in the shower
And hardest of all, hands down, to face the mirror.
I always feel full
Of loathing for this body
That I’ve let down.
Concern in her words.
Aggression in her tone.
Maybe she just hasn’t mastered the American voice yet.