I haven’t written anything for myself since August. Poetry comes from pain. The past nine months have been, as far as I can remember, the shortest amount of time with the highest concentration of highs and lows in my life. Despite this, I have written nothing. I don’t know why. I wish I did. I wish I recorded all of those emotions down. I told myself many times that I should.
I don’t know why I’m writing now. I have so much other work to do, but I can’t do it because I can’t stop overthinking. This is not a new problem. I have had this problem my entire life. I was born with it. But recently I’ve been finding myself slipping into it more and more and I think its because I have stopped caring about whether I slip into it or not. It is so exhausting to care. And recently the final touch has caused me to give up caring all together. Maybe that’s why I’m writing here.
I feel like I have wasted so much time
following your tail in circles
after I realized that all this while
it was just mine.
But then I think back
to everything that that you did
and I find it hard to believe
there wasn’t a little bit of authenticity.
I would have felt better
if you had just said
it was something I did
rather than who I am.
But then I begin to doubt your words
and I doubt my thoughts.
I got these trust problems long ago –
that’s not your fault.
So if I take your words for truth,
then the past is a lie.
If you’re words are false –
then there’s nothing worse you could say.