Mess

"I am a mess”

I say, more sure of it than before I was 22

And less sure of why.

“I am a mess”

I say, unapologetically, not seeking councel

It’s a matter of fact.

“I am a mess

I say, replaying Joni Mitchell lyrics in my head,

Knowing that it is hard to love me,

Wondering if anyone is even suppose to.

I am a mess. It’s true.

Because rain makes me cry and because

My friend died unexpectedly in a motorcycle accident and because

I saw 30 cities in one year and fell in love with every one

And I fell in love with people who I do not really love

And for the first time I’ve done things I can’t admit to

And because I know what’s good for me and I still don’t want it

And because I start to wonder if I am even real and because

Making people fall in love with you is the most terrible special skill to have and because I don’t know yet if I’m ready to give up kissing boys I don’t know in hotel hallways at 3 am,

And because I haven’t been able to write a poem about what a mess I am until now

I am most certainly, most certainly a mess

And still, he looks into my eyes

And tells me he doesn’t see it.

He tells me I’m handling things

And that I’m beautiful.

I’m probably going to be okay, I think.

I’m probably going to be okay."